The MiddleEarth Campaign
by EtchedInDiamond
Summary: Two nations. One war. The fate of Narnia and Middle-Earth will be decided in this grand conflict of armies as the High Monarchs of Narnia seek to regain what they lost: One of their own. ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

**AN: This will be my first story outside the Halo/SW crossover section, so I hope it satisfies your taste. The main plot will be about a war between Narnia and Middle-Earth for reasons not yet confirmed by me. Note, this is only a prologue, so you might be a little confused. Just to clear things up: This is after the events of Return of the King and somewhere during the Pevensie's rule in Narnia. So they're adults. There will be a plethora of OC's, but the original characters will be here. Enjoy! **

**DISCLAIMER: **_**Let's put it this way, if I owned both franchises I wouldn't be here right now. **_

_Thwak!_

The archer's aim was true; the multi-feathered arrow traversed the battlefield of corpses and blood and found its fleeing quarry. The centaur, armored in red-gold steel, clutched at the arrow piercing his thick neck. The beast fell, thrashing wildly in his death throes. Another arrow landed, with a dull thud, in the centaur's chest. With a dying breath, it shuddered once more, then lay still.

"That's the last of them," his killer sighed, slinging his bow across his broad back.

Deremir, son of Hamathir, Third Captain of the Grey Company, stepped away from the pile of his enemies and turned.

The Rangers had been interrupted during their evening supper at camp. A wounded soldier from the Forodwaith campaign stumbled into their fire, startling everyone in the area, even the horses. After a brief period of treating the man's injuries, he told the Northern Rangers of a contingent of centaurs that managed to pass the border. The creatures attacked their fort and slaughtered nearly everyone in the vicinity, save for a few prisoners. The man, whose name was Gros, was the only one who escaped. Spurred by wrath and duty, Deremir mustered his attachment and ran, ran as if the very whips of his master were behind him, to the marauders. They found the centaurs resting in a glen, drinking by the creek. The prisoners were bound and gagged against a tree. Stealthily, Deremir ordered his men to fan out and surround the centaurs in a loose pincer formation.

The ensuing skirmish was quick and bloody, but the rangers were victorious in the end. Just like they always were.

Deremir, blocking out the acrid smell of the growing pyre of his enemies, inspected the row of fallen rangers resting against a small incline.

"Five dead," a gruff voice said from behind him. The captain felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Could be worse. Their souls are gone from Arda now."

"To where, Elbarad?" Deremir said, stroking his red beard. He turned to his elder subordinate. Elbarad was a skilled veteran from the War of the Ring, who fought on the walls of Minas Tirith during the Great Siege. A scarred and weather-beaten countenance faced the world like a worn crag on the shore, hard but unwavering. His once curly brown hair was now a close-cropped grey, and his eyes were hard as rock. Despite his intimidating manner, he was actually very friendly among the company, and had a peculiar love for old poetry. One verse came to mind, a verse Deremir quoted.

_Where does Man go after death? _

_Do they pass by stern Mandos in his halls of judgment, _

_Or do they go to a realm far beyond the reach of the Valar?_

"That's the point, Deremir," Elbarad chuckled, recognizing the short stanza as one of late father's, who was a part-time minstrel at the capital. "If the bloody Valar don't know, how are mere men supposed to?"

"Maybe they go to _their_ afterlife," a jovial voice spoke from over the incline. "After all, theirs is the only religion besides our own."

Aranur, Deremir's young lieutenant, swaggered over the hill, cloak fluttering in the twilight breeze. His flowing black locks bounced comically atop his head, a detail he always failed to notice. Even when the others pointed and sniggered at him as he traipsed about. Although his face was fair and handsome, he had not the tactical intelligence to lead a troop of baboons.

"If that's the case," Elbarad hissed, shivering, "I would plea for immortality."

"Better hurry up, Elbarad," Aranur jibed. "It's not like you have much time."

"Watch yourself, Aranur," Deremir warned, holding back an enraged Elbarad. "What would your poor father think of his darling son insulting old age?"

The boy blanched, pivoting swiftly and stumbling away towards the new camp.

"Remind me why he's here again," Elbarad asked, wiping a speck of spittle from his chin.

"His father paid the Ithilien Rangers to take him in as one of their own, on behalf of his own son's request. Obviously, our brothers didn't want to put up with him any longer. Without displeasing the senator, they sent him over to us instead of kicking him off the company outright."

"Government spawn," Elbarad spat. "Their freshly-bathed limbs aren't suited for this kind of life."

The sound of booming thunder ended any further conversation between the two. A torrent of rain fell onto the earth. Pulling his hood over his head, he ran alongside his older friend to the shade of a nearby willow tree.

"I hate the weather here," Elbarad grunted. "I feel sorry for the colonists coming in from the east."

"As does all of Middle-Earth, brother," Deremir said, watching his men chortle and joke around the campfire. "You heard the news from Gondor. Arnor will be the first to be occupied during the war."

"If there is one at all," Elbarad scoffed. "Those creatures don't have the spine to brave the northern wastes, much less cross swords with our men."

"Trust me, Elbarad, they do."

"Oh?"

"Many a caravan bearing wounded bordermen passes Arnor. If you took the time to have a word with them you might learn a few things."

"Like what?" Elbarad inquired, all business. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. The steady patter of the rain and the voices of the rangers were the only sound as Deremir collected his thoughts.

"Centaurs aren't the only beasts they have at their disposal," the third captain began. "I've heard tales of goat-men wielding swords, impaling men with twisting horns. Animals with the ability to relay orders during the heat of battle in common tongue. Terrifying giants with stone clubs, easily tearing down forts.

"How's that for your 'spineless' army?"

Elbarad fixated his gaze on his leader, seeking for falsehood in his storm-grey eyes.

He found none.

"Well," Elbarad said, clapping his hands together in finality. "That's a real bucket load if you ask me. How 'bout we warm ourselves by the fire, eh?"

Deremir nodded, noting the nervous anxiety in his lieutenant's eyes, and joined the thirty-odd rangers, slowly immersing himself in the cool night time atmosphere.

**Twenty-Sixth Year of Sovereign Rule, Narnia, Cair Paravel, King Peter the Magnificent's Private Chambers, **

"I'm telling you, Ed, we can't just barge into Middle-Earth and march straight to the capital! We need a _plan_!"

"So we keep probing their defenses? Waste more lives getting a taste of what they have to offer? It's _preposterous_!"

High Kings Peter and Edmund, dressed in their full royal regalia, stood nose-to-nose, practically fuming. Mesinthus, Captain of the Royal Guard and both brothers' loyal confidante, sat quietly on a wooden stool beside the lavishly decorated bed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at both kings' behavior.

He was one of the few satyrs ever to reach such a prestigious position in the realm of Narnia. Born and bred in an old hovel near Cair Paravel, Mesinthus' only ability that set him apart from the rest of his litter was his uncanny intelligence. Twenty-seven years later, he found himself leading an elite group of satyrs and fauns with the sole job to protect the royal monarchs.

"My lieges," he began, standing from where he sat.

King Peter and Edmund stopped their argument, faces flushed, and turned to the captain.

"Yes, Mesinthus?" Edmund sighed, brushing his stubbly chin.

"I know I forget my place when I ask this, but won't both your plans work better when implemented together?" he pointed out.

There was a moment of silent embarrassment as the two High Kings absorbed the satyr's logic. Peter smiled bashfully, brushing a stray golden bang from his forehead.

"Of course, Mesinthus," he said. "How stupid of us. I thank you for your advice."

"I am ever your faithful servant, my kings." Mesinthus replied, bowing.

"Nonsense, Mesinthus," Edmund responded, waving a hand. "You are more than that to us. You are our friend."

The royal captain felt an unfamiliar surge of kinship with the two Sons of Adam, but pushed it down the moment it surfaced. _You re the Royal Captain_, he told himself, _Nothing more._

"Well then, we might as well get started," Edmund sighed, moving to an oaken table covered by a map and two ink quills. The young king swept a calloused finger across the cloth, tracing mountains and rivers. He stopped at a thin dashed line separating Narnia from Middle-Earth.

"The source of our problem," Peter commented from behind his brother.

"Calormen has already agreed to aid us in our campaign. All we need now is to muster an army big enough to contend with whatever Aragorn has to offer."

"Plus, we have to survive a few months in two deserts: One of sand and one of ice." Said Mesinthus, joining the two by the map.

"I always thought that was odd," Edmund said, fine brows furrowed. "A tundra directly below a bloody hot desert."

"The point is," Peter said, giving a stern look at his younger brother. "We need sufficient rations to support an invasion force numbering in the thousands."

"We tell each soldier to bring a sack lunch?" Edmund inquired not-so-helpfully.

"Then, we have to pass the bordermen guarding the southern wastes." Peter said.

"Not a problem," Mesinthus interjected. "Reports from expeditionary forces say that the bordermen are tough, but the appropriate amount of force should push them back. It's not the bordermen we should worry about."

"Indeed," Peter whispered, tapping his index finger on a stretch of land labeled Arnor. "Additional reports talk of strange hunters killing off scouts with relative ease, using the shadows to their advantage. They move with almost no sound at all, and they possess uncanny senses."

"Rangers," Edmund sighed.

"Rangers. Ed, remember the time when we were going to visit King Eomer at Edoras?"

"Clear as day, brother." Edmund said, eyes never leaving the map.

"Remember when those strangely clothed men seemed to materialize from the shadows of the trees, blocking the entourage? They surprised even the bloodhounds."

"I remember."

"Imagine what hell they could wreak to our forces with those skills."

Even Mesinthus shuddered. The satyr captain was there when that happened, protecting the monarchs from any plucky wild men or stray orcs. One of the rangers had looked at him strangely, a tall man with a red beard. Pushing the image away, the captain returned to the matter at hand.

"Let's not worry about those things, my lords. That will only deter us from the main goal. A goal we should reach quickly if Queen Lucy is to recover from her depression."

The men's' faces paled, sending an ungodly lurch through their stomachs. Peter's face turned an ugly shade of dark, and his fingers tightened on the table edge. Edmund looked away, guilt forming on his fair features.

"I do not think I should remind you of what is at stake here. Our goal is apparent and vital to the survival of this nation."

"Agreed." The two kings said.

'So," Peter began, regaining his cool. "We try to survive three months of harsh travel with a few thousand soldiers."

"Destroy the border guard and occupy Arnor without getting picked off by the rangers." Edmund added, trying not to sound too grim.

"Then we traverse the whole of Middle-Earth and march to the capital, Minas Tirith."

The last phase all three said, with much fervor and hope.

"Then we take back Queen Susan from their clutches."

**AN: I hope you liked it! As always, leave a few questions and critique, because I'm bound to have made a few mistakes, grammatically and plot-wise. R&R! **


	2. Before the Storm

**AN: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Here's the second installment in the Middle-Earth Campaign. This is just what happened before the prologue and how the war came to be.**

**DISCLAIMER:**_** I own nothing but my OCs. A shame, really.**_

**One Year and Five Months before current events…**

"Friends, friends! A word!"

The banquet hall hushed as they witnessed King Aragorn rise from the heavily ornamented throne, goblet held in one hand. He gave a warm smile, seeming to meet the gaze of every guest in the room.

"This day marks a time when two nations become allied in peace and harmony. A time when evil will never blemish this land again!"

A hearty roar issued from the throats of the dinner invitees, some giving claps of approval. Aragorn lifted his arms once more, and the crowd was silenced.

"I would like to thank the emissaries from the land of Narnia for coming. Let this feast please you all."

He sat down again, resuming his conversation with High King Peter the Magnificent. The blonde man smiled respectfully, listening to his elder's words.

Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, could not eat.

It was not his appetite that deterred him, nor the foul-smelling satyr to his right. The food was splendid, yet the elf seemed in a trance. A beautiful woman in a red satin dress was seated next to King Peter, leaning forward in rapt attention as Lady Arwen told a small anecdote. Her bright, toothy smile struck the immortal's heart every time it appeared. She noticed the prince looking at her. The woman smiled, and Legolas could not help but return the favor.

"You full, laddie?" a gruff voice said from his left.

Legolas looked down to see his best friend, Gimli of the Iron Hills, raising a bushy eyebrow up at him.

"Whatever do you mean?" the elf asked innocently.

"Your food's untouched, so I presume you're feastin' your eyes on some other morsel."

Legolas blushed furiously, coughing to hide his bashfulness. Feeling a bit ashamed, he looked back at the dwarf.

"Even you can note her beauty, my friend," the elf whispered. "Is she not amazing?"

"For a mortal," Gimli huffed. "_Mortal_."

"I know, I know," Legolas replied, playing with his beef with a polished fork. He looked back at the object of his affection. "I just want to speak with her."

"Fine then, boy, but-wait-look away, her brother's noticed you." Gimli hissed suddenly.

Legolas expertly averted his gaze above her head, pretending to admire a portrait of Minas Tirith hanging on the opposite wall. He took a sip from his goblet.

"Which kinsman?" he said in a low voice.

"The elder. King Peter. Huh, just your luck, it seems." the dwarf responded.

"Is he still looking?"

"Of course. Oh, I think he's going to tell old Aragorn."

Legolas bit his lip, cursing himself for his uncharacteristic behavior. He was a prince, for Eru's sake. One who had never lusted inappropriately for a female, of any race, before.

"Legolas!" a familiar voice called.

"Good luck, laddie boy. You'll need it." Gimli whispered, taking a mouthful of his roasted peasant.

Legolas rose politely, striding to the head of the dinner table. Aragorn smiled kindly at his old friend, and Legolas smiled back. It was almost like the old days, but then the tall man in royal blue clothing spoke up.

"You are an elf?" he asked, nigh-indecently.

"Yes, your grace," Legolas answered, pretending not to notice the suspicion in the young king's eyes. "I am the Prince of Mirkwood, a region many leagues from this country."

"A prince?" a melodious voice asked.

Legolas looked down and got the full brunt of the woman looking up at him. A heart-shaped face, adorned with lovely features and green eyes. Lovely, black-brown tresses flowed down the sides of her visage, down to the milk-white skin below her sharp collarbone.

Legolas suppressed a gasp, but he managed to smile.

"Yes, I am son of Thranduil, king of Mirkwood. I apologize for his absence. My father had to personally investigate recent action at Dol Goldur."

Aragorn's face darkened, and he patted his elf-friend on the shoulder.

"Let us not talk of such dark things, Legolas." he said. He looked at the mortal woman. "Oh, Legolas, I seemed to forget to introduce our beautiful friend here. Her name is-"

"Susan," the girl interjected, offering a dainty palm. "I am Queen Susan of Narnia."

Legolas took the hand, brushing his lips across her small knuckles. He looked up at Susan.

"It is an immense pleasure to meet you, your grace."

There was a moment of silence as Susan fluttered her eyelashes and beamed.

"Ahem," Peter barged in, clearing his throat. "I believe that is sufficient time for introductions, don't you think?"

"Indeed," Aragorn responded, giving his friend a strange look. "Legolas, you may return to your seat."

The prince smiled and turned away, his heart beating like a staccato drum.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**Five months after the dinner party…**

"When will I see you again?" Legolas whispered, kissing his lover on her pale forehead,

"I do not know," she answered, resting her head on his bare chest. "Only time will tell."

They were lying on Susan's bed, inside her guest room in Minas Tirith. Both were only partially clad, and the candles on the bedside table were the only light in the room. Legolas, in all his centuries of living, seemed complete.

"Come to my palace," he whispered. "Come to Mirkwood with me."

She chuckled, rising from her mattress and inspecting herself in the bathroom mirror.

"Last time I was there we were attacked by giant spiders, my love. That was an experience I do not want to relive."

"That was a mistake on my part," Legolas answered, coming beside her. "I slew the foul creatures, remember? There was not a bruise on your body."

"Oh, how did you know?" she flirted.

"I checked closely." he replied, resting his chin on her head. "Anyways, you are avoiding the question. Why won't you stay?"

"Because I have a duty, Legolas." She responded, tying her hair in a bun and moving to the closet to don a white dress. "You of all people should know that, o honored member of the Fellowship."

He laughed, crossing his arms.

"Of course, Susan. Duty is important, and it was one of the major factors in destroying the One Ring. I'm just asking you to come for a week or two."

"I cannot afford that," she sighed, hugging him tightly. "Peter is becoming upset with me."

"Let him," the elf replied, voice hardening at the mention of her brother. "His anger is only a feeble pebble amidst the morning tide of our love."

"More like a steel dam," she huffed. "He demands that I stay in Narnia for the next year or two."

"What?" Legolas exclaimed. "A _year_?"

"I am sorry, but it is what he wants. He _is_ my big brother."

"_I_, my dear Susan, cannot afford that." he said, clutching her forearms gently. "It calling again."

"What is?" she asked, confused.

"The _sea_," he told her, a tortured expression on his fair features. "The white gulls sing of the ocean, and the trees no longer give me the familiar comfort of security. Whenever I near the shore my heart cries out, and I dare to heed it. My soul longs for the sea, yet my heart is with you."

Tears began forming in his eyes, and he ignored the shame in his spirit and locked gazes with Susan.

"I don't know what to do." he cried.

"Hush, we'll get through this" she comforted, tears pouring down her cheeks. "We always do."

**Eleven Months after the dinner party…**

The throne hall of Cair Paravel had never witnessed such tension in all its millennia of experience. Mesinthus, captain of the Royal Guard, could only sit and watch as the monarchs of Narnia argued and screamed like mangy cats.

"I have told you before, and I will tell you again, Su, you are NOT going back there!" Peter yelled, face flushed with anger.

"There is nothing you can do that will bar me from going, Peter!" Susan cried back, eyes pooling with unshed tears of frustration and sadness. "I need to go!"

"Steady on there, Susan," Edmund interrupted, standing up from his throne. "You _need _to go? You pour out your heart and soul for a blasted _elf_? I understand you fancied him, Su, but this road will only lead to heartbreak."

"I _completely_ agree." Peter stated, arms crossed.

Susan ground her teeth, glaring daggers at her brothers. She looked to her sister, who was sitting by the seaside window.

"Lucy, please tell me you are on my side." She implored.

The youngest queen bit her lip, shaking as sobs racked her body from the inside. Yet she would not speak, not wanting to divide the family even further. A breath of desperation escaped her mouth. She turned to Mesinthus, who gulped.

"Captain?" she asked. "Your words of advice have saved this court from ruin many a time."

"Oh, you don't have to say that." he replied, suddenly interested in a mud stain on his hooves.

"What have you to say about this?" she inquired.

"W-well, I don't actually k-know, about, er, all this s-stuff, and, uh, I c-can't really say-" he stammered.

Susan screamed, hands clasping her head. She began to weep, and she ran out of the hall in complete chaos. Shortly after her departure, Lucy sobbed and exited through a side door.

"That went well, don't you think?" Edmund said, wiping his sweaty brow.

**One Month after the dinner party…**

"Peter, she's gone!"

King Peter rose from the throne, eyes burning. Edmund lay in front of the row of resplendent thrones, kneeling pitifully. Tears stained his soot-covered face, and fresh cuts on his tunic, breeches and dirty skin told the High King exactly what happened.

"How?" he demanded.

"They attacked the caravan mid-day. They took us completely by surprise. Mesinthus and I tried to rally the men, but by that time they were all over us."

"Who?" Peter asked, stepping gracefully down the steps.

"Wood elves," Mesinthus spat. He himself was in disarray, clothes muddy and torn. A jagged cut ran from his ear to his chin. The three were the only ones in the throne room, and Peter was grateful for the security. "They were armed to the teeth. One would think they were attacking a band of orcs."

"I thought they were our _allies_." Peter gritted through tightly clenched teeth.

"On defense of our allies," Lucy replied, leering at her older brother. "I doubt Aragorn and the others were in league here. The captain did say 'wood elves'."

"Then it is what I suspected." Peter announced, hands clasped behind his back. "The prince has kidnapped our sister."

"Kidnapped?" Mesinthus said, raising an eyebrow. "I doubt it."

"Oh?" Peter asked.

"Just before their departure, one of them flattened me to the ground with an oak staff. As I lay on the ground, I spied the queen gently holding hands with our blonde suspect. That is not the characteristic of an unwilling captive."

"The bastard!" Edmund roared, overturning a chair. "He has taken our sister away from us!"

"Edmund, calm down!" Lucy cried.

"Edmund, heed your sister!" Peter snapped. "This is no time to let loose your emotions."

Edmund cursed, sitting down next to Mesinthus. The captain ruffled the man's hair, then quickly withdrew.

"Let's start technically. Mesinthus, casualties?" he asked.

"Seven, my liege. Six wounded and one dead. Minor cuts and bruises for the wounded. The faun soldier who lost his life fell while the caravan tried to flee. He was run over by the wagon."

"Did you bring his body back?" Peter said, running a fingertip across his sword's leather scabbard.

"Of course. His family has been informed."

"Good. Then it is time." Peter said with finality. "Mesinthus, send a herald to the capital. Tell Aragorn that this insult is a wound deep in our hearts. Tell him that if the prince does not relinquish Susan, then that will be the final straw. It will be war."

"Yes, my king." Mesinthus nodded and bowed, leaving the throne room.

"Shall I muster the troops, brother?" Edmund asked, wrath spurned.

"Not yet, Ed. We need to wait for the reply."

As the men walked out, no one seemed to notice the young queen silently weeping on her throne, a little lily dashed against an edifice of cold stone.

**AN: Please R&R! I'd love to hear you feedback! **


	3. Advance Party

**AN: Filler chapter. Nothing too serious goes on. Pertaining to the previous chapter, if anyone noticed the mistake/typo I made about the "one month after dinner party", I ment twelve. Anyways, enjoy.**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I own nothing.**_

Sunlight filtered through the forest canopy, basking the glen with a hazy brilliance. A rickety lean-to was constructed against a copse of trees, edged with a running creek. Over two dozen horses rested beneath the shade of a giant oak, lazily shaking their manes as they greeted the morning.

Deremir opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as his vision adjusted to the sudden light. Groaning, he kicked off his sheets and sat forward, yawning and stretching like a cat. A sound came from his right. He withdrew his short saber as quick as lightning and pointed it at the intruder.

Elbarad smirked, lifting a hand in mock surrender.

"I am caught, it seems," the old ranger chuckled. "Stealing firewood from the forest."

Deremir noted the pile of twigs and branches bunched up in the crook of Elbarad's right arm. The captain sighed and stood, brushing grass from his cloak. He folded his sleeping mat, turning to his friend in the process.

"What caused you to awaken so early?" he asked, finishing and approaching his horse, Hátha. He tucked the mat in a pack resting against the beast's side.

"A dream awoke me." Elbarad stated.

"Oh?" commented Deremir. "One of misfortune?"

"I would answer, but the details seem to have escaped me. All I remember was a vast desert, covered with what seemed to be thousands of encampments."

"Strange," the third captain remarked. "There are few deserts in Middle-Earth, let alone Arda."

Elbarad fixed his leader with a queer stare.

"Who said anything about Middle-Earth?"

Deremir's heart quickened for a split second, but he regained composure. He did not reply to Elbarad's comment, however. Conversation of that ilk would ruin such a fine morning. He moved to the center of the camp and cupped two hands around his mouth.

"AWAKE!" he yelled.

The rangers, accustomed to the habit, repressed several curses and reluctantly exited their sleeping mats and started to set up. Deremir approached a young ranger, one whose name was Torin.

"Torin, take four and scout the next area. We're moving closer north, and there's no telling what might have bypassed the border guard."

Torin nodded and left, talking with four other men.

"You're getting paranoid," an all too familiar voice called from his left.

"If you've heard the stories, Aranur, you would have good reason to take caution."

"Well, that's it," the young lieutenant remarked, long hair bobbing up and down. "They're just stories. My father said-"

"You father is many leagues from here, master Aranur." Elbarad interrupted. He was atop his horse, a big palomino. He trotted up to the two. "What would he know of the Frostwaith campaign?"

"He said that the Narnians wouldn't dare attack," the boy stated. "They have not the strength nor numbers."

"Strength and numbers don't always win a war, lieutenant." Deremir lectured. He lead Hátha to the creek for a quick drink. "Many examples in history testify to that fact."

"Why are we having this conflict anyway?" Aranur said miserably, brushing his hair with a sweaty hand. "Father said something about a big trade disagreement, but I don't believe it one bit."

"I heard it was something scandalous," Elbarad whispered. "Some elf stole one of the foreign monarchs, and now the High King wants his sibling back."

"Where'd you hear such a ridiculous thing?" Aranur scoffed. "I bet that's far from the truth. Who told you that?"

"A Rohirrim knight, when we stayed at Edoras. He said he was close to King Eomer, and that he knew all the inner workings of the conflict."

"Whatever it is," Deremir interjected, getting atop his horse. "It's not important. All we have to worry about is getting to the north. Elbarad, muster the men."

"We ride now!" the man called, pulling the reins on his horse.

Soon, the thirty rangers were riding out through the forest, leaving nothing but pile of scorched twigs in their wake.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Torin knelt to the ground, inspecting the broken helm lying in the ditch. His brow furrowed as he ran a finger across the heavy dent on the tarnished steel. He recognized it as a border guard helmet.

"Brother, I can hear the company approaching," said Harin. "Their hooves pound the earth with much force. We should go back."

The three others: Feol, Haná, and Grema, grunted their assent.

"Wait awhile," Torin said. "There's something strange here."

_Zzziit_!

Haná gurgled piteously, clutching at the arrow protruding from his neck. He fell off his horse, pale and dead. The now burden less beast whinnied and fled into the surrounding brush.

"Ride back to the company!" Torin cried, saddling his own horse. They began to gallop back towards where they came, but a new hail of projectiles showered down on them.

Harin screamed and cursed, ignoring but feeling the pain of the arrow sticking out of his ankle. Blood trailed from the wound as they fled out of the glade. Grema fell, three arrows piercing his back. Adrenaline coursed through the surviving scouts' brains as they rode well out of range and into the plane lands. Tall grass brushed at their ankles as they slowed down and looked back. There was no sign of enemies, but the dense forest could hide many an enemy in its green embrace.

"We cannot leave their bodies to the enemy," Feol pointed out, tears forming in his eyes. Grema was his cousin, one who he had promised his uncle he would take care of.

"There is naught we can do but wait for the others," Torin answered. He too felt the pain of lost comrades, but he had to stand firm.

They waited there, hearing nothing but the gasps of their horses and the morning breeze caressing the trees, mocking the rangers in quiet glee.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"We were ambushed, captain," Torin told Deremir. "Haná and Grema were slain, and Harin was wounded in the foot."

"Ankle," the other corrected, grimacing as the healers treated his wound.

Deremir peered across the plain towards the nearby forest. He was absolutely certain that they were not orcs; their kind never used such stealthy methods. Uruk-Hai remnant, perhaps? No, they would not dare go this far north. It had to be Narnians.

"Do we dare go back and retrieve the corpses and the horses?" Elbarad asked.

"Yes," Deremir sighed. "We cannot leave them there. It is not the ranger way. We go in, get the bodies, and if we can, the horses. We do not stay any longer."

"What of the enemy?" Torin inquired, curly brown hair matted with sweat.

"We cannot fight a foe whose numbers we do not know. It would be suicide. With their cover and line of sight, they could pick us off before we can respond." Elbarad lectured.

"The lieutenant is right. I will pick ten and personally lead them into the forest. Torin, I need you to lead me to the ambush site."

"Yes, captain," the young man said. Deremir noted the ranger pale considerably, but he ignored it.

Deremir chose ten warriors whom he thought efficient enough to accomplish the task, then they set off.

"Elbarad" he called back. "If I do not return in twenty minutes lead the men north to the Frostwaith. Nature shall take care of burial detail."

Elbarad's visage turned an ugly shade of white, but he nodded.

The eleven rangers covered their heads with their hoods and melded into the forest brush, horseless.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Glenthus watched the eleven men crouch into the underbrush, strange bows in hand. The satyr knew what these men were; what they were capable of. His soldiers were lucky enough to dispatch of the two, but they would not be so fortunate this time. Glenthus waved his lieutenant, a faun named Sarin, forward.

"We take them out one-by-one." he instructed. "From the rear to the front. Understand?"

Sarin nodded, a sheen of sweat covering his face. Their mottled green camouflage cloaks did nothing to beat the forest humidity, but it was for the better. Sarin moved stealthily atop the tree branches, longbow at the ready. Glenthus swallowed and gestured to one of his satyrs. The goat-man hybrid nodded and pulled his bowstring, beady eyes trained on the rearmost ranger.

He released.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir sensed the arrow even before it came within a yard from his body. He leaned back, feeling the projectile whizz past his chest. He drew an arrow from his quiver and aimed, sighting an elm tree to his right.

He released.

He heard a satisfying croak, then the sound of a body hitting the forest floor. He withdrew another arrow and set it against the bow, senses on overload.

"Berun, there is an archer behind the oak tree a dozen paces to your left," he informed the ranger in a whisper. "Take him out."

Berun, a bald warrior new to the company, nodded and shot his arrow. There was a gasp of pain then a dull thud.

Torin rose from his crouch and fired through the canopy, then went back down again. One more hidden enemy fell to the rangers. Suddenly, two arrows appeared from the shadows, aiming for Deremir. He twisted his body, avoiding the first and catching the other with his bare hand. He set it in his own bow and fired towards the bushes. There was a cry of pain.

More arrows showered the company, but the skilled rangers were used to the environment. They thrived in it.

Finally, they made it to the ditch, where Torin pointed to two arrow-pierced bodies. A duo of horses stood beside them, grazing on a patch of grass. Deremir gestured to Torin and another ranger, then pointed to the corpses and horses.

Torin and the ranger, Rorin, pulled the bodies back into the underbrush. They lead the horses back, too. Deremir approached Torin.

"Go back to the others," he instructed. "There's something I have to do."

With that said, he smiled encouragingly and melted into the shadows.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Glenthus could only gape in disbelief.

Eleven rangers had faced forty-nine of his men and left without a scratch. He himself suffered seven casualties. Suppressing a curse, the satyr sergeant gestured to his men. They were pulling out. They began to move, jumping from treetop to treetop. He prepared to jump from the branch he was standing on, crouching for momentum.

A strong arm snaked across his throat, cutting off his air and pulling him back.

"Where do you think you're going?" a foreign voice hissed in his ear.

Glenthus felt a painful tap in the base of his skull, then fell into darkness.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir pushed the prisoner in front of the fire, dousing the creature's furry head with a bucket of water.

The thing awoke, confused and groaning.

Deremir pulled its head back and looked into its dark eyes.

"Who are you and how did you come here?"

The beast blinked and smirked, muzzle curled in a human-like fashion. The whole company were gathered around the fire, fixing the creature with hard stares. Deremir curled his hand into a fist and punched the Narnian.

"Should I repeat my inquiry or has it registered into your thick skull?" Deremir asked, cocking an eyebrow. The men chuckled around him.

"I am called Glenthus," the beast spoke in a heavily accented tone.

"What are you?" Deremir asked, nothing the curling horns atop the soldier's skull.

It looked at him in confusion, then nodded in understanding.

"I am a satyr, from the land of Narnia." he stated.

"So, _satyr_," Deremir said, releasing the soldier's head. He paced around the Narnian, arms folded behind him. "What brings you so far from your land?"

"I enjoy traveling," it jibed.

Deremir chuckled.

"I'm sure you do, Glenthus. I take it you also enjoy hiding behind bushes and slaying my men?" he questioned.

The satyr had nothing to say to that.

Elbarad rose from the log, cracking his knuckles.

"Let me handle him, captain," he pleaded. "I'll have him singing in no time."

"Hold, Elbarad," Deremir warned, lifting a firm hand. "Let's not be rude to our guests."

"Says the man who clocked me in the face," Glenthus muttered.

"Oh, Glenthus, they'll be _much_ more in store for you if you do not answer my questions."

"Yeah, like what?"

Elbarad chuckled darkly.

"You should _not_ have said that."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"We were part of an advance force," Glenthus sighed, defeat lacing his words.. "Most of us were occupied with the border guard, but a few managed to slip through. My soldiers were just a fraction of the hundreds that marched across the ice."

Glenthus was tied firmly against a tree, head hung. The rangers had left him _relatively_ unscathed, save for a few scorch marks on the satyr's hairy frame. The smell of singed fur wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted rabbit and boiled greens.

"What was the purpose of the advance party?" Deremir asked. He recalled the band of centaurs they slew a few days back. _They must've been part of the advance party_, he thought.

Glenthus shook his head, and the captain gestured to Elbarad. The older ranger grinned and lifted the heated brand.

"We were supposed to test the defenses," Glenthus spouted. "Get the lay of the land. We were also supposed to stay in Arnor and await the-"

Glenthus, realizing he was saying too much, shut his mouth and closed his eyes.

"Await what, Glenthus?" Deremir inquired, leaning forward.

The satyr was silent.

Elbarad plunged the brand on Glenthus' chest. The satyr moaned, but his lips were kept shut.

"That's enough, Elbarad," Deremir said, pushing the lieutenant away. "He's acting like any loyal soldier. Besides, I've heard all I needed to hear."

Glenthus began to weep, tears pouring from his shut eyelids. Deremir felt a pang of guilt and pity in his heart. He motioned to Elbarad and Aranur.

"Untie him. Give him adequate food and water. He's earned it."

As the two obeyed, Deremir sat down beside the fire, mind reeling. He ignored a platter of food given by one of his rangers. His appetite had left him.

Even though the satyr had kept his lid shut in the end, the previous details given could only mean one thing. A full-scale invasion was underway. Judging by the rapidity of the advance force, the Narnians were moving quickly. The border guard would have to deal with possibly thousands of invaders, much more than what they were currently handling. Deremir only hoped they would get there in time.

He had a bad feeling Middle-Earth was in for the war of the age.

**AN: As always, R&R! **


	4. The Journey

**AN: I'll be uploading a chapter for this story after I upload one for Endwar: Breaking Point. And vice versa. Anyways, this is a filler chapter. Plus, the entrance of two familiar characters.**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**Lebron James: Championship: Me: Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia **_

The warm, August breeze stirred through the plains, caressing the long grass like the growing tuft of a newborn babe. It rolled through the flatlands, reaching something unfamiliar to its touch. Heavy canvas, smelling of sweat and musk, and the extinguished charcoal of campfires.

The Narnian camp awoke.

Thousands of tents were stretched across the plains, dotting the landscape like rice grains scattered atop a field of brown. In the center of the vast camp ground was the Royal Tent, a massive construction spanning over forty-two feet in length and forty in width.

Inside, splendid ornaments hung on the interior walls, adorning the otherwise mottled canvas with bright colors and antiquities. Two adjacent quarters, edged with red-gold privacy sheets, stood at the far end. A giant, oak table stood in the center, covered with crinkly maps and ink.

Peter walked out of his quarters, fully dressed in his sky-blue royal tunic and brown trousers. His golden hair flowed down his muscular neck, free from the restraint of the crown. He kicked at the other room's wall.

"Rise and shine, Ed," he called.

A series of unintelligible mutters followed, dampened by the dense barrier. Peter chuckled, waiting patiently.

Edmund exited his room, brushing back his tousled hair. He pulled on a regular soldier's shirt and pants, and apparently decided to be done with it.

Peter looked his younger brother up and down, eyebrows reaching the ceiling,

"What?" Edmund said defensively. "It's not like I'm attending a gala or anything."

"Always look your best in front of your soldiers, Edmund," Peter lectured.

"So what," Edmund snorted. "They know their king. They'll relate to me, like they always do."

Peter shook his head, not wanting to prolong the conversation any further. He reached the map table, sifting his hands through the numerous sheets. He pulled out the right one and laid it on the top.

"Calormen," he whispered, scanning the miles of desert land they would have to cross. He took out another map, this one older and drawn in a foreign hand.

"Forodwaith," he said, louder this time so his brother could hear.

"Some of the natives call it the Frostwaith," Edmund added helpfully.

"Brother, sometimes I wonder how in the world we can lead an army across this land," he sighed.

"By the proper amount of good leadership and determination," a friendly voice pointed out.

Mesinthus leaned on the wooden post by the entrance, smiling. He wore his royal armor, and his golden-brown fur was freshly washed and brushed. Even his spiraling horns looked trim.

"Mesinthus, come in, please," Peter grinned, happy to see a familiar face.

"What's up, captain?" Edmund asked, reclining on a velvet sofa.

"The troops are fully awakened and are awaiting the bugle call, my lords." The satyr answered.

"I trust they are ready for inspection?" Peter inquired, adjusting his clothes.

"As ready as I can prepare them to be, my liege," the satyr replied.

"Well then," the younger king exhaled. "Let's go."

The trio exited the Royal Tent, heading to the eastern side of the camp, where the daily inspections took place.

The camp had been separated into ten sectors, each numbering about eleven thousand. The sectors went into their designated fields, where they would stand in rank and file and wait. To accommodate such massive numbers, the captains appointed inspection officers to scan the troops. While the officers were up and about, the kings would stand at the head of the soldiers looking regal.

They would go visit each sector after the other, until it was over. The whole process would take over four hours, but it was worth the time. Constant vigilance was the key in pulling an army across miles of harsh landscapes.

The invading force of 111, 105 Narnian troops needed to be in tip-top shape when the Forodwaith border line appeared over the horizon.

When the last inspection was over, the soldiers retreated to the eating grounds to devour breakfast. Peter, Edmund, and Mesinthus went back to the Royal Tent, where the servants had probably already prepared the meal.

Sure enough, three hot, steaming bowls of oatmeal awaited them, plus plates of egg and bacon, and to top it off, a platter of roasted chicken.

Edmund's stomach growled in longing.

"Let's eat, shall we?" he said, eyes alight.

They sat down and began to partake, savoring each delightful sip or munch. They were well into their euphoric eating when the entrance flapped open.

"Busy, _signors_?" a rich, exotic voice asked.

Peter looked up from his plate to see General Scipio Mantéra stride into the tent.

The man was a Telmarine, anyone could see that, and a fine-looking one at that. He was dressed in full-steel armor, complete with a feathered helm. He removed the helmet when he walked in, revealing close-cropped black hair, combed and oiled and graying at the temples. His tanned face showed no trace of a wrinkle, yet the king swore he was pushing fifty. He had bright, green eyes, and a trimmed mustache below his Roman nose. He looked friendly enough, but the High King had dealt with many Telmarines before. They were not a most trustworthy people. He would have to be careful when dealing with the general. He was the leader of the two hundred odd Telmarine mercenaries traveling with them.

"_Signors_?" he repeated, the foreign lilt lacing his words. "Are you to busy, perhaps?"

"No, general, not at all," Peter answered, gesturing to a chair next to Mesinthus. "Please, sit."

The Telmarine nodded, sitting down beside the satyr. Both stiffened, pretending not to notice each other. Peter knew that Telmarines had an intense dislike of native Narnians, and were not afraid to express it. Even in front of two kings.

Edmund cleared his throat.

"So, general, what brings you here?" he asked politely, leaning back in his seat.

"A simple thing, really," he answered, stirring his bowl of soup with spoon. "Just a change of sleeping grounds."

"Why so?" Peter asked, brows furrowed.

"My men are quite tired of having to rest beside your centaurs," he said, meeting the High King's gaze. "I mean you no offense, but having someplace else to situate ourselves would be much appreciated."

"What's wrong with centaurs?" Mesinthus grunted, sipping his tankard of apple cider.

"Nothing, captain, except maybe the smell and the sound of their incessant neighing," the general answered, his tone a bit too condescending.

"Maybe the constant raucous your men make every night causes them to be so annoying," the royal captain remarked.

Scipio shot him a glare, one that the satyr gladly returned.

"At ease, gentlemen," Peter said. He didn't want the spark to become an overwhelming fire.

"You might want to use another term for the one beside me," Scipio commented. "Gentlemen seems too human. 'Beast' is more like it, _si_?"

Mesinthus stood with a growl, leering down at the calm general. Scipio grinned slightly.

"ENOUGH!" Peter roared, standing. "Mesinthus, return to your quarters!"

The captain saluted and bowed, still shaking in fury. He stalked out of the tent. The Telmarine shook his head, tongue clicking.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he clucked. "You might want to put a leash on that one, my liege."

"General, I think we have had enough time to discuss the matter. You and your men will remain where you are. Am I clear?"

Scipio's fair face darkened, but he nodded.

"Leave us." Peter ordered.

Scipio stood and exited the tent. The High King sighed, slumping into his chair. Edmund watched the Telmarine general walk away, cursing at anyone who crossed his path.

"I think we might have to put a leash on _him_," he said.

Peter shook his head.

"The sooner we get to the fighting , the better," he exhaled. "Because then they'll focus on fighting the enemy rather than each other."

**Northern Arnor, half a league from the Forodwaith**

A gust of icy wind blew across the line of rangers, pushing at their cloaked bodies as they traversed the flat tundra. Snow was beginning to pile on the road, and Deremir feared that they wouldn't be able to reach the first fort in time

"Stay strong," he called, voice dim under the roar of the wind. "We are close!"

The men stayed firm, pulling their cloaks tighter around their bodies. Deremir knew his men were strong, so he wasn't worried about them. He was worried about their steeds.

Deremir laid a palm on his horse's chestnut skin. It was vibrating slightly, and the captain knew Hátha was using all his strength to stay standing.

The ranger bent forward, whispering encouraging words in Elvish into his friend's long ear. The horse seemed to straighten, moving at a faster speed, but he knew time was short. If they didn't make it to the fort soon, then Hátha would die.

"Will it be worth it, captain?" a voice rasped from his bottom right.

Deremir looked down to see the captive satyr, Glenthus, walking calmly beside him, hands bound tied to a knot on Deremir's pack. It was as if the Narnian walked across snowy plains every day; he didn't look fazed one bit.

"Hátha is strong," Deremir answered, more reassuring himself than answering the prisoner. "He will make it."

"Are you so sure?"

Deremir ignored him.

"Halt!" a voice called out from one of the trees bordering the snow-packed road. "Who goes there?"

Deremir stopped, lifting a hand. The rangers behind him froze.

"I am Deremir, son of Hamathir, Third Captain of the Grey Company. We are journeying to Fort Faran for lodging and a place for our horses."

There was the sound of rustling, then twelve men clothed in the garb of Bordermen walked out of the underbrush. The lead man, a gaunt thirty-year-old, gave a wary glance at the red-headed man at the lead of the large troop.

"What brings the Dunédain to the Forodwaith?" he asked suspiciously.

"We offer aid to the beleaguered men up north," Deremir answered. "And news from the capital. What is your name, soldier?"

"Kaslan," the man grunted, stamping his feet on the snow and rubbing his arms. "I go by Kaslan. You are welcome, rangers. Faran is not too far from here. Enjoy your stay."

Deremir urged his horse faster, passing the men by the road. Kaslan noted the captive beside Deremir and spat at Glenthus' feet. The satyr ignored it and walked on.

The fort awaited them, a massive building of logs and plaster, as tall as the gates of Minas Tirith. The wooden gate creaked open, pulled by men in animal furs. The rangers rode in, immediately attended to by the Bordermen.

"Where are the stables, soldier?" Deremir asked one of the men as he dismounted.

"To your right, sir." Deremir was surprised to see a boy look up at him. He looked like he belonged in a schoolhouse, not a fort. "Not to worry, captain, we'll take care of your horses."

As the Bordermen led the beasts to the stables, the rangers headed to the tavern. Its door was open, and the red light of a fire welcomed them in. The tavern was filled with men, most of them congregated around the large fire beneath the hearth. Several oaken tables were arrayed across the room, and the thirty rangers scattered around them.

Deremir saw Elbarad approach him.

"Its good we got here, eh?" the old lieutenant remarked, reveling in the warm atmosphere. "And not a moment too soon."

Deremir nodded.

As the rangers conversed with the Bordermen, Deremir noticed two children sitting in the corner, clutching silver pints in their hand. At first, he wondered what children were doing in a tavern, then he wondered what children were doing in a tavern _drinking_.

He approached the duo, who he noted were wearing viridian capes over their tan tunics and trousers, held together by silver leaf brooches. It looked elf-made to the captain. He tapped his finger on the first one's shoulder, the one with curly, dirty-blonde hair.

"What are you doing here, boy?" he asked.

As they turned, Deremir discovered that the two children were most definitely _not_ children at all.

"Do you have a problem, kind sir?" the blonde one inquired, lifting a golden eyebrow.

"Yeah," the other remarked. He had a mop of brown curls, and his voice was light and accented. "You don't just go barging in our drinking time, _sir_."

Deremir looked them up and down, and despite their small stature, they had the appearance of young men. Then, of course, there were their large, hairy feet.

"What are two Halflings doing in northern Arnor?' Deremir asked, smiling. His jobs as a ranger often brought him around the Shire, and he enjoyed watching the hobbits do their daily activities from a safe distance. Their kind weren't too fond of the "Big People".

"Is it any of your business?" the blonde one asked.

"Well-"

"NO! I don't think so!" the hobbit yelled, gulping down a mouthful from his pint. "Who are you anyway?"

"If it makes it any better, I'm a ranger."

The two Halflings froze for a second, then changed. Deremir was surprised at how an individual could go from cold and hostile to bright and chipper in the space of a millisecond.

"You're a ranger?" the brown-haired one asked, voice high. "I take it you've been to the Shire?"

"Not in it, but near."

The blonde one stood and stuck out a hand.

"I'm Meriadoc Brandybuck, but you can call me Merry. This here's my friend, Peregrin Took."

"But you can call me Pippin."

"My name is Deremir," the third captain said. "It is good to meet you."

"You too." They said in unison.

"So to my first question," the ranger added. "What brings two hobbits to northern Arnor?"

"Adventure," the one called Pippin piped.

"And battle," Merry added. "We love a good battle."

Deremir stood in shock for over three seconds. He plopped down beside the two hobbits and waved over to the waiter.

"Two pints for the gentlemen sitting here," he called.

As the two tankards were handed to Merry and Pippin, Deremir leaned forward, red beard almost brushing against the table-top.

"Now, tell me your story, because I have a feeling that it will be the best I've heard in a while."

**AN: Like I said, a filler chapter. This one's almost too pathetic to even bother to R&R, but please, do so anyway. It would be greatly appreciated. **


	5. First Blood

**AN: Here's the next chapter. Also, I'm feeling kind of depressed by the lack of reviews. I won't stop writing and updating, but you know, I'd love it. Thanks, and enjoy.**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**If any lawyers are perusing this site, yeah, I don't own LOTR or Narnia, thank you very much.**_

Calormen-Middle Earth Borderline

At first sight, the Borderline was a complete mystery.

A thin sheen of a bright, iridescent substance climbing far into the heavens and stretching from the east to the west. It was a thin as a sheet of parchment, glimmering like the surface of a calm lake. Even peculiar still was the stark contrast of sand and ice. On the Calormen side was the end of a vast desert, and on the Forodwaith was the beginning of harsh tundra.

Some say that the Valar had erected it to mark the end of their country. The Narnians claimed that the Great Lion himself breathed it into existence. Whatever the beliefs, it was a mystery.

Although he had been here a dozen times, Peter still found himself awestruck at the magnificent sight.

He was at the head of the army, sitting atop his battle horse. Edmund was to his left, on his own steed. The giant invading force waited patiently in silence. There was naught but the sound of the rushing wind to keep the men company,

Peter eyed the land beyond the border, a look of steely determination on his fair countenance. He pulled the reins, turning to the army.

"Today marks the day when we set foot in the land of Middle-Earth." he announced, his voice amplified by the quietness.

"Not for petty trade agreements," he said, scorn evident in his tone. "Not for ample feasts. But for the reclamation of royal blood, and the judgment of ones who dared to wrong us!"

A hearty yell of approval issued forth from each soldier's throats, filling the sandy valley with the sound of excitement and battle lust. The desert was filled to the brim, every grain of sand covered with the worn boot of a soldier. Peter's face flushed with pride and eagerness as he surveyed the troops.

"We will be victorious!" he cried, lifting his sword to the heavens.

The army erupted once more, hurting the king's ears but filling him with a sense of satisfying fulfillment. Edmund leaned over to him.

"Nicely done, brother," he shouted over the ear-splitting din. "That's a good way of telling them we're heading into the most dangerous land imaginable."

"Shut it!" Peter replied.

Mesinthus walked over to them as the troops settled down.

"Your orders, my liege?" he asked, grinning ear to ear.

"Tell my men…we march." he responded with much ardor.

"WE MARCH!" Mesinthus yelled to the army.

Peter stepped into the layer of unknown aura. He had the vague sense of falling through a pond, and then it was gone.

A sudden gust of icy wind blew right into his face, almost knocking him off his horse. He cursed and righted himself, steadying his nervous steed. He heard the sound of the beast's hooves on virgin snow. Edmund came up beside him, experiencing the same moment of confusion as Peter had a moment ago. The High King chuckled, receiving his younger brother's glare whole-heartedly.

The Narnian army began their journey into Middle-Earth.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Usually a soldier would relish the chance to be relieved of the monotonous duty of Minas Tirith Citadel watch. Long, boring hours of watching the same damn tree could wreck a man's idea of free time.

Usually, a break would be much appreciated.

Well, for Guard Captain Sethemir, not so much.

He _hated_ Fort Amalion.

It wasn't just the remote feeling of you'll-never-be-able-to-see-the-color-green-again, or no time to visit loved ones, it was the blasted _cold_.

He scoffed, remembering a pompous senator one day during his watch hours in the citadel. The fat man had remarked about Rohan being the coldest place on this realm.

_Trust me, you don't know cold until you've been to the Forodwaith_.

He shivered, wrapping his goat furs tighter about his body. The animal hair kept him relatively warm, but it could only go so far. His ears felt like they were about to fall off and run back to Gondor.

_I knew I should've grown some facial hair_, he thought drily.

His dear wife had always nagged him about that, but he never listened. Odd, he had thought all women liked clean-shaven men. Smiling at the thought, he turned to go back inside.

A horn sounded from the north.

He whirled, gripping the metal handle of his sword. Through the thick fog ahead, and the expanse of ice, he couldn't see much. He wasn't stupid, though.

That was no Middle-Earth-made horn.

"Sentries!" he cried sprinting along the wooden allure of the fort. "Arm yourselves! They have come!"

The half-asleep guards sprung into action, gathering weapons and men in the courtyard below. The armory was opened almost immediately; the men rushed inside to get better weapons. A soldier barged into the barracks, awakening the sleeping men with anxious shouts.

Sethemir watched the frightened men run outside, half naked. They yelped then returned to get their clothes.

It took a full ten minutes for the whole of Amalion to prepare, a number Sethemir was not happy with.

"You ill-forgotten sods!" he snarled, his burning eyes on the men gathered inside the thick walls of the fort. "What if the enemy had reached the gate by now? You would have been slaughtered in your sleep!"

The men looked down, ashamed.

Sethemir huffed in disgust. He grabbed a young guardsman by the coat sleeve, staring hard into his wide eyes.

"You, acquire a horse and ride to Amon Ran. Alert the men that they have finally made their move. Go, now!"

The man nodded and stumbled down the steps, all but sprinting to the stables.

Sethemir spun back to face the ice before him.

Two low mountain ranges bordered the wide valley in front of the farthest-most fort. Three miles from the Borderline, it was big enough to withstand a well-planned siege and supplied enough to last a garrison of troops for two years. Sethemir was confident it would last long.

Then the first of the Narnians appeared over the horizon.

They were a long line of black on the white ice, bearing torches in their hands. They covered the width of the valley, and the captain estimated it was about five hundred at first sight.

Then more came.

And more.

And more.

By that time Sethemir's jaw had touched the floor. At this rate, they would clear the fort

and still keep coming. He had _severely _underestimated the Narnian's numbers.

Vala, they probably had more than Narnians at their disposal.

He pushed down his fear and faced the men.

They were still in the courtyard, too low to even see the approaching army, but he could tell they were seriously frightened. The sound of their steps could be heard from a mile away.

"Stay strong!" Sethemir encouraged.

Silence.

"Boran, bring out the catapult! Danathan, bring your company to the eastern wall and prepare your archers! Fenathor, do the same for the west end! All the rest of you, reinforce the gate with planks and iron bars! Hurry, before they act!" he managed to say in one urgent breath.

They sprung into action, separating in orderly groups to complete the tasks. He nodded, satisfied with their actions. He had trained these men well.

Suddenly, the marching stopped.

Sethemir faced the north. The head of the massive army was but a couple tree's lengths away. They were close enough for the captain to survey their troops.

He immediately recognized the golden-furred satyrs from their previous attempts to break through. They still looked as ferocious as ever. Then there were the tall centaurs, many bearing swords that could spear three men at once. He noted the fauns, slight of build but acrobatic and nimble. Then giants, taller than oak trees and thicker, wielding wooden clubs and iron spikes. If they unleashed four of them on the fort, it would be crushed. Sethemir prayed that it would not happen.

There were others he didn't recognize, and more he couldn't even see. The whole army was too large. He estimated twenty-five thousand, tops. All in crimson armor and fur cloaks. All ready to kill.

A man on a horse detached from the main body, covered in a thick coat. He took it off.

"You there," he called in a deep, masculine voice. Sethemir saw the finger pointing to him. "You look like you're the leader of this fort."

Sethemir nodded. He noticed the golden hair, and the bright blue eyes. He knew the High King of Narnia, Peter, was talking to him.

"Surrender your fort, men, and weapons to my command. We will let you live if you obey my orders. If not, then my army and I shall take it by force."

"What would you do if you were in my place, oh great king?" Sethemir replied loudly after mustering up enough courage to even whisper.

There was a tense moment of time as the king processed this. There was no silence; even the rustling of the troops behind him sounded like an earthquake.

Peter smiled sadly.

"I understand." was all he said.

He waved his men forward.

The front line charged, followed by the second, then the third, and so on. They enveloped around the king until he was gone from Sethemir's sight.

The battle had begun.

"ARCHERS!" Sethemir bellowed.

The bowmen beside him and behind the battlements drew their arrow backs, sighting their targets.

"Fire!" the captain ordered.

The archers released, sending a hail of arrows down upon the charging Narnians.

Most found their mark, downing dozens of the strange beasts. The whole front line fell, arrows around their bodies like pincushions. There were more where they came from, however, and Sethemir knew that his men would eventually run out of ammunition.

"Volley!" he called.

The order was repeated by his lieutenants, and a new shower of projectiles rained on the invaders. Sethemir motioned to the archers in the courtyard.

The archers there fired their arrow up and over the wall. Sethemir witnessed a faun get gutted from the collarbone down from an arrow's near-vertical drop. He grimaced but resumed his watch.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Peter watched as his men attacked the walls, some even using their bare hands to try to take it down. The majority of the advance force had focused their attention on the huge wooden gate. Many a soldier littered the ground, lying in a puddle of their own blood. Peter gestured to Mesinthus.

"Bring out the ladders," he commanded.

The satyr turned to the men.

"LADDERS!" he bellowed.

The lines parted, leaving space for a column of fauns bearing tall ladders to walk down. They entered the group assaulting the walls, moving slowly but surely towards the fort. Peter saw the leader of the fort encourage his men, ordering them to shoot down the ladder bearers.

It was no use. If one of them fell there were plenty to take their place.

Edmund came up to him.

"May I join the fight?" he asked eagerly.

"Not yet, Ed," Peter said. "I am confident they can break the gate by themselves."

The forces of seven hundred were already splintering the gate, and by the reaction of the leader, the High King knew they were doing well.

"Take the Guard and join in…now."

Edmund roared, bringing his horse up and lifting his sword.

"Royal Guard, to me!" he cried.

Mesinthus and the others formed four phalanxes, each soldier bearing an iron shield. Edmund donned his steel helm and brought his horse to a gallop.

The Guard charged along behind him.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Sethemir watched in despair as the gate broke into dozens of wooden pieces. The iron planks had done almost nothing to help. The enemy had entered Fort Amalion.

"No!" he told the men atop the battlements. "Guard the parapets! Focus on the ladders! Bring them down!"

A ladder slammed on the battlements in front of him, almost knocking him to his feet. A determined faun climbed up the rungs and jumped down.

Sethemir snarled and twisted his sword in preparation.

The faun withdrew a curved scimitar from his back and slashed. The captain sidestepped the ill-prepared blow and lunged. The sword slid in and out of the creature's body, right through the red-gold, leather armor. The faun gasped, eyes filming over. Sethemir withdrew his sword and kicked the corpse back.

It fell over the wall and down on his crazed comrades. Sethemir pushed the ladder back down. He turned his attention back to the besieged ward.

His men were fighting hard, forming a tight blockade across the gate, pushing the Narnians back outside. Archers in the rear picked off the invaders one by one. The area inside the walls, where the gate used to be, was a place of pitched combat.

Soldiers slashed haphazardly, hoping they would get a lucky kill or two. He saw a centaur charge into his line, swinging his broadsword like a mace. He lopped many heads off, felling Sethemir's men like a bloody lumberjack.

Sethemir picked up the dead faun's scimitar, took aim, and let it fly. The deadly projectile cut the air and struck the centaur square in the back.

The beast neighed in pain and fell, only to fall prey to the captain's vengeful men.

Sethemir saw a satyr charge him and swung, halting the thing's overhead swipe. He feigned then lunged, grazing its side. It bellowed and slashed.

He ducked, feeling the sword cut a few hairs off his head. He grunted and swung upwards.

His blade slashed the beast from groin to skull, almost splitting it in two. The captain kicked the ruined corpse to the ground.

Gasping for breath, he looked around.

The men on the battlements were losing ground. Already the majority of the archers lay slain on the floor, leaking blood from many a wound. His remaining men retreated down the stairs, fighting just to step foot upon the earth.

Knowing the situation was hopeless atop the allure, he jumped down.

The moment his feet touched down, he rolled across the ground and stopped in a wary crouch. The men had been forced to split apart from the main group. Sethemir saw Boran and two dozen of his men in the middle of the yard, guarding a catapult that had not even been used. Fenathor and five of his archers had climbed on the mess hall roof, firing their arrows until they were spent. One of his lieutenants, Dagan, had gathered his company together. They were surrounded, having been pushed against the barrack walls.

Sethemir lifted his bloody sword.

"Take courage!" he cried. "If we die today, then let it be GLORIOUS!"

His men cheered, some still fighting. The captain wiped his sweaty face, breath coming out in misty puffs. He took seven men with him.

"We attack their right flank!" he commanded, pointing to the group of fauns wedged tightly in the chokehold the gate had created.

Before they had any time to object, Sethemir ordered the charge.

"Aaaaah!" he roared, swinging his sword down on an unsuspecting faun.

The creature's body gave way, breaking under the crimson blade. Sethemir's men jumped on top of the invaders, hacking and slashing madly.

Sethemir had just finished beheading a satyr when he felt a sharp pain on his side, then he fell to the ground.

He looked up through blurry eyes. A satyr had kicked him with its hoof. Said satyr had elaborate, iron armor, and a helm spiked at the front. Two holes allowed the horns to spiral upwards without restraint.

Sethemir groaned, clutching the aching wound. He backed up, eyes still locked on the satyr.

He fell on open, bloody ground.

The captain stood shakily, surveying the carnage around him.

Boran lay slain on the catapult, a bloody slash running from shoulder to hip. Fenathor was dead on the roof, a spear sticking out of his back. All of his men lay on the ground, dead or dying. His force of three hundred and twenty men was gone.

Dawn had approached, a purple-orange sky above the remains of a once full fort. Tears threatened to spill down Sethemir's grimy cheeks, but he fought them into non-existence.

Cursing, he lifted his sword in preparation.

The invaders closed in around him, weapons at the ready.

"Stop!" a voice called out.

The Narnians paused, looking for the voice. The satyr that had kicked him walked into the circle of open ground Sethemir stood on. A royal figure in shining steel armor trotted in beside him. His steed whinnied, unnerved by the smell of so much blood.

High King Peter approached, looking confused.

"What's the matter, Ed, is there a-" he halted mid-sentence, seeing Sethemir alone.

"What's your name, soldier?" the satyr asked, voice deep and scratchy.

"I am Guard Captain Sethemir son of Cathamir the Fourth, Fifth Citadel Cohort of the White Tree, leader of a dead garrison, and I will _not_ be servant to you or any Narnian."

Something akin to admiration shone in the satyr's dark eyes.

"So, Sethemir," Peter called, also bearing a newfound respect for this brave man. "What will it be?"

Sethemir lunged, blade flashing in the light of a rising sun.

The satyr countered, curved blade stopping the sword from its intended target, the High King. Peter stood calmly, watching the two warriors cross swords.

Sethemir spun his sword, cutting the air with a horizontal swipe. The creature leaned back, and rushed with supernatural speed. Sethemir had barely enough time to parry a slash before he fell to the ground.

The Narnians gathered around them cheered, encouraging their brother onwards. Sethemir sliced upwards, almost cutting the beast's face. The satyr calmly stepped back, spinning his scimitar.

"Arise, captain," he said.

Sethemir stood, panting. He decided to take the offensive.

He unleashed a barrage of attacks, from the most simplest of hacks to moves taught by the Steward, Faramir, himself. The satyr matched him blow for blow, moving with a speed not granted to man.

Even so, the Royal Captain was impressed with the warrior's skill.

Sethemir feigned twice, to the head and leg, then aimed for the beast's unprotected neck.

The satyr blocked the blow, the joined blades vibrating from the impact. Sethemir roared in defiance and lunged.

His opponent parried the stab, twisting his scimitar until it reached the other's hilt. He weaved the blade inside the hilt and jerked.

Sethemir's sword went flying out of reach.

The captain despairingly watched the weapon spin in the air, only to be caught by the High King. Peter inspected the blade, then looked at the captain with melancholy eyes.

Sethemir turned to the satyr and charged, bare hands outstretched like talons.

The Royal Captain plunged his blade into the man's midsection.

Sethemir clutched the satyr's neck like a lifeline, gasping for breath. He coughed up blood, staining the invader's silver armor.

He let go, falling to the ground in a heap.

He had failed.

The satyr looked into his eyes sadly.

"I am Mesinthus, Captain of the Royal Guard and the runt of a litter of twelve. I am proud to say I crossed blades with you, Sethemir son of Cathamir."

Sethemir, the image of his dear wife's face flashing before his eyes, shuddered then gave one final breath.

He was gone.

Mesinthus sheathed his blade, ignoring the celebration of the soldiers around him. Edmund clasped his shoulders, a grin splitting his face.

"You sure showed him, Mesinthus," he remarked happily. "That's the most skillful swordplay I've seen from you in forever."

Mesinthus smiled half-heartedly and nodded.

Edmund chuckled and left to attend to the wounded and slain.

Peter approached him, still holding the fallen warrior's sword. He smiled genuinely, sky-blue eyes telling Mesinthus all he needed to know.

The satyr wept, falling into the understanding king's outstretched arms. Peter himself could not suppress a tear. He loathed seeing a great warrior die, and he despised having to kill one.

He could only imagine what it must feel like for a satyr like Mesinthus. The only thing greater than his sense of honor was his kindness.

"Oh, Aslan," Peter whispered. "Where are you?"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir whirled in surprise as the doors to Fort Faran's busy tavern opened.

A young man in animal furs stood at the door, face flushed from exertion. He had a sword and scabbard at his hip.

"Soldier, what's your business?" he asked.

The occupant of the tavern listened in silence as the man gathered himself up.

"The enemy," he gasped. "They've come."

Merry and Pippin gave each other a surprised look. Deremir's heart fell to his stomach. He knew his face had paled without even looking at a mirror.

"The enemy?" Aranur slurred, still drunk on wine. "Please specify, kind sir."

Elbarad smacked him on the head.

"What do you think he means, dimwit?" he snarled. He gave Deremir a hard look. "The Narnians. They're here."

Deremir stood frozen, completely still until the messenger fell to the floor, dead from exhaustion.

**AN: There you have it. Please R&R! **


	6. Guerillas, Letters, and a Red Dawn

**AN: Sorry for the long wait. And to you Breaking Point readers, I apologize tremendously. School's tough, and its hard to catch up. I've been able to update this story more often because of my recent inspirations, but I'm just not feeling anything for my HaloSWEndwar sequel. Anyways, I hope you like this chapter! **

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I own nothing.**_

**Forodwaith, Fourth Age, Post-War Period**

Deremir peered over the rocky ledge, surveying the countless rows of tents and campfires across the icy plain. Elbarad came up beside him, large body stiffening at the sight.

"Valar be damned," he cursed. "Not even the orc army at Minas Tirith was as numerous as this."

Deremir reluctantly nodded.

He could see tall sentries patrolling along the southern border of the camp; Minotaurs wielding gigantic battle-axes. They growled and snarled at each other and anything else that moved, brandishing their weapons boisterously. They were almost indistinguishable in the night backdrop, black fur coarse and dark.

A humongous tent was pitched in the centre of the camp, a few miles away from the rangers' hiding place. The fact that it could be seen from where he crouched astounded Deremir.

"That must be where the kings sleep," Aranur whispered, walking out of the woods. He stepped over a few twigs, causing Deremir to wince at the loud noise.

"Watch your step, dimwit," Elbarad hissed. "Don't alert the whole blasted camp!"

Aranur made an annoyed noise in his throat and came to an unsteady crouch. He waddled over to them. Seeing the thousands of tents, he cursed and fell back.

"By the Valar," he exhaled, brushing back his illustrious bangs. "We're doomed."

Elbarad smacked him upside the head.

"Ow!" the young lieutenant cried, rubbing the back of his head. "Why ever did you do that?"

"Because you're being a hopeless prick, that's why," Elbarad answered, turning away. "Never predict a defeat, Aranur."

"He's right, Aranur," Deremir added. "Numbers are just how many enemies we can kill in the end."

He took this in, gaze locked on the ever-spanning camp.

"Well, I guess we have a _little _chance," he grumbled.

"That's more like it," Elbarad grunted. He faced his captain. "Your orders, sir?"

Deremir was silent for a moment, back turned. He crossed his arms, surveying the camp. The rangers' forms were well concealed, melding with the shadows of the towering trees behind them. Not even the keen eyes of the patrolling griffins could have distinguished them.

"We do what we do best," he finally said, fingering the fletched arrow in his oaken quiver.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The minotaur strode up the rocky incline, grunting with each laborious step. He had been on sentry duty for two stinking hours, the night wind his only constant companion. He exhaled, mist pouring from his wide nostrils.

They were getting to the end of the Forodwaith. In the past two weeks they had tore down four forts, including Amalion. Bleak icy wasteland started to shift into grass-marked tundra. Spring was coming.

The large sentry whirled, hearing a noise behind him. Hefting his battle-axe, he muttered deeply and moved to inspect it.

A white fox scampered out of the brush, tail between its legs.

The minotaur relaxed, watching the beast as it once more disappeared from view. He chuckled to himself, putting away his weapon.

Pain lanced through his body, centering in a spot on his back. He moaned, falling to his knees. Before he could turn, a weight settled onto his body, bringing him down.

He felt the cold touch of sharpened steel on his furry throat, and then all was dark.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Faun Scout Bedipus dozed quietly under the shade of the lone willow tree, far from his scouting party. They had reached a quiet glade, hidden from the abuse of the Forodwaith. To the fauns, it was like an oasis in the middle of a scorching desert.

A creek bubbled quietly in front of him, running through the glen then vanishing into the trees. He sighed, placing a grass talk between his teeth.

"Yes, Bedipus, this is the life," he muttered to himself satisfactorily.

A scream rent the air.

Bedipus started, awakening from his dearly sought nap. Cursing, he took up his saber and stalked toward the noise.

"Oi! Quiet down there! I'm trying to take a nap here, you know?" he yelled.

There was no answer.

Grumbling, he entered the woodland, swishing his blade through the bushes.

"Malnus, if it's you, I swear I'll-"

He stopped, choking back a gasp.

Malnus lay on the ground, an arrow protruding from his helmeted skull. The crimson helm was stained with dark blood. Five other fauns lay slain around him, arrows pinning them like pincushions.

"M-Malnus," he whimpered. "By the L-Lion, how did this-"

An arrow came flashing from the trees, pinning the surprised scout to a tree. He gasped, clutching at the wooden shaft protruding from his leather-armored chest. He gave one final breath, and then he knew no more.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Satyr Lieutenant Caliphon jogged through the underbrush, followed by three of his subordinates. Patrolling was an interesting duty: It could be long hours of nothing, or an adrenaline-filled experience. He thought his watch would just be a mere three hours of nothing, but a far-off scream alerted him.

Right now, he was racing towards the source. The scream sounded familiar, a desperate cry from an old friend. He recalled Malnus, the Scout Captain, leaving with a troop of fauns to see the land.

_Oh, Malnus, what have you gotten yourself into_?

He was still lost in his thoughts when he yelped, tripping over a jutting rock in the path.

"Captain," one of his lieutenants gasped.

"I'm fine!" he snapped. "Go on! I'll catch up!"

"No, captain, I-It's not that-"

"Great Aslan, THEN WHAT IS IT?"

The young satyr pointed at the rock.

Caliphon looked down, and discovered it wasn't a rock at all.

A minotaur lay on the path, in a puddle of his own blood. An arrow stuck out from his broad back, and there was a large gash in his thick neck.

Caliphon sputtered, stumbling away from the corpse. He ran a shivering hand over his face, whispering prayers.

"When did he die, captain?" one of the satyrs asked.

"I don't know, recently." he answered back quietly. "What's important is that someone's killing off our soldiers. We have to go back to camp."

They nodded, turning back.

A hail of arrows fell from the trees, slaying the three satyrs instantly. Caliphon cried out, withdrawing his scimitar.

"Cowards! Come out and face me, you-"

A silver flash arced from the woods. Caliphon felt a queasy feeling in his stomach. He looked down.

A saber protruded from his abdomen, blood spurting from the horrific wound. Caliphon gasped for air, but none entered.

He fell back, life leaving his body .

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

King Edmund placed his boot on the boulder, draping his arm on his thigh resplendently. The twilight breeze caressed his face. He closed his eyes and smiled.

Mesinthus came up beside him, followed by a troop of the Royal Guard and four heavily armored centaurs. They were off on a scouting trip, but what Edmund really wanted was a breath of fresh air.

"My king, I think it best that we return to camp," Mesinthus warned, eyes darting from side to side. "Who knows what hides in these woods?"

"Relax, captain," the young monarch replied. He ran his eyes over the grassy flatlands before him. "No one would be so brash as to attack the Royal Guard and their king. Besides, we are near the camp. If anything happened, Peter would be alerted."

A griffin cry pierced the night, and the golden figure of the beast itself settled onto the boulder, panting.

"My king, something is wrong," the griffin gasped, wings fluttering nervously. His lion body was dampened with sweat.

"What is it?" Edmund asked, body rigid with attention.

The guards had stiffened, hands on the pommels of their swords. Mesinthus looked about anxiously.

"My king," the griffin responded after catching a breath. "Someone is killing our troops."

All were silent.

Edmund's face darkened. Mesinthus muttered a curse and ordered two of his satyrs to report to camp.

"How do you know this?" the Royal Captain questioned the beast.

"My brother and I discovered a group of fauns slaughtered in a forest not far from here. We doubled back, and found four satyrs slain beside a dead minotaur sentry. A little while ago we came across three dead centaurs. Look, my brother approaches."

Sure enough, another griffin flew in from the east, wings beating furiously. His voice echoed considerably as he spoke mid-flight.

"King Edmund! I found another group of corpses! Four Telmarines in the woods a little-"

An arrow lanced out of nowhere, striking the griffin in the chest. The majestic creature cried out piteously, body falling to the plains below.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Its Rangers, it has to be," Edmund groaned, head clasped in his hands.

They were seated inside the Royal Tent, resting while the camp busily reorganized itself. Scouting parties were being recalled and reinforced, and sentries were multiplied. Fifty centaurs were outside the tent, lead by General Orieus. They were in lockdown.

"Who else?" Peter replied, looking haggard. His blonde hair was in disarray, and his silk clothes rumpled. "No one this close to Arnor bears such skill with the bow-and-arrow, much less concealment."

"I guess we kind of had it coming," Mesinthus grumbled. "We did slay hundreds of Bordermen."

"This is a war, captain."

"I know, I know."

They were silent for a moment.

"We're not going to get out of this unharmed, are we?" Mesinthus said quietly.

Edmund rose and withdrew an arrow from his sleeve, still stained with the blood of the griffin. He slammed it down on the map table, the shaft quivering from the force.

"You tell me," he replied. He walked out of the tent.

On the side of the arrow were words:

_THE MOUNDS OF OUR ENEMIES WILL REACH THE SKY._

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir and the other rangers walked back into Fort Aran, immediately met with a celebratory cheer from the Bordermen. They mobbed them, faces red from the cold and the excitement. Deremir smiled and accepted the hearty back-claps and hand shaking.

Aranur's face was flushed. He stuck out his chest and told a grand story of how he single-handedly decapitated a fleeing centaur with but a wooden branch. Deremir smirked and walked into the tavern.

Two small bodies barreled into him, almost knocking him off his feet. Deremir chuckled, ruffling the hair of the two hobbits.

"How many did you kill?" Pippin piped, bobbing up and down.

"Did you see a minotaur?" Merry interjected. "I've heard stories, and I heard they were a mix between man and bull!"

"Not only did I see one, I _slew_ one." Deremir replied, walking past the two Halflings and sitting by the fire. He warmed his hands and inhaled. "Anymore questions?"

As they plagued the ranger captain with hundreds of inquiries, he couldn't help but recall the Narnian camp. The sight had chilled him to the bone. He had succeeded in sparking a guerilla war, but sooner or later they would reach Fort Aran.

And after they destroyed it, that Deremir was certain, they would enter Arnor.

Then after Arnor, Bree and the Shire.

Rohan.

Gondor.

All of Middle-Earth.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

King Aragorn was tired.

No, _exhausted_. The aged monarch of Gondor sat back in his stone throne, closing his weary eyes.

_Love_, he thought, _why must you be so fickle?_

He retreated into the recesses of his mind, returning to a day far gone.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Legolas! What have you done?"

"Fallen in love, Aragorn," the noble elf replied helplessly. He faced the stern king determinedly. "It has found me at last."

"Do not make excuses!" Aragorn snapped, trying to suppress his anger. "You have incited a potential war, Legolas. Thousands could die because of your childish act!"

"Have you not loved before, Aragorn?" the elf asked, voice ringing in the empty throne hall of Minas Tirith.

Aragorn heaved, silent but for his heavy breaths. He calmed down, sitting wearily in his throne.

"Yes, _mellon nin_, I have. Yet, you kidnapped the sister of the Narnian Kings!" he cried. "Why her?"

"Why Arwen Undomiel?" Legolas countered, crossing his graceful arms. "Tell me?"

"Her beauty, her grace, everything about her!" he replied.

"I rest my case."

"By the Valar, Legolas!" Aragorn said, voice rising. "Return her now!"

"I CANNOT!"

The fury and desperation in his friend's voice shocked the king back into his throne. He was stunned. Speechless. The prince was on his knees now, chest heaving. Tears sprang from his eyes, running down his marble cheeks.

"My king, my friend," Legolas whispered. "I am leaving this realm soon. I am leaving, and I cannot bring her with me. My heart is torn."

Aragorn made an exasperated noise, bringing a palm to his domed forehead. The aging king slumped into his throne, gray eyes boring into the elf's soul.

"You feel deeply about this, Legolas?" he asked quietly, after a long time.

The elf nodded, distraught.

Aragorn got up from his throne, bones cracking. He brushed his black, feather-hemmed robe and walked towards his long time friend. He clasped his shoulder.

"How you've changed," he whispered, eyes moist. "You are not the Legolas of the Fellowship."

"No, my friend," the prince remarked, chuckling. "I am better."

"Now that we're finished with the details," Gimli huffed from his chair, smoking his pipe impatiently. He had entered a few minutes ago, ignored by the two. "What in Middle Earth are we going to do now?"

Aragorn was silent, the gears in his mind churning quickly.

"We do what we can," he said. "We negotiate."

**(Still in flashback) One month later**…

The citadel captain bustled into the throne hall, his silver armor glistening in the shine of the sun. The doors closed, halting the dazzle. He knelt, cape swishing, in front of the seated king.

"My lord, they have answered." he informed him. The captain withdrew the letter from the back of his greaves and handed it to the outstretched hand of Aragorn.

"My thanks, Sethemir," the heir of Isildur said softly. "You may return to your duties."

Sethemir stood, bowed, and left the hall.

Aragorn sighed, untying the scarlet clasp that bound the coarse parchment. He could still feel the faint grooves of the messenger griffin's talons.

"Well," Gimli grunted, leaning forward in his favored chair. Legolas was absent, walking with the Narnian Queen through the king's gardens. "What does it say?"

Aragorn's face was impassive as he read the precise handwriting of the High King.

_**To the Most Esteemed King of Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn,**_

_** It is most unfortunate that my dear sister still refuses to return to our home. Recent events have indeed deluded her thoughts and actions. I have contemplated for hours on end as to what must be done, and I was pleased to once again hold another letter from your glorious capital.**_

_** I am puzzled to your request for negotiations. I am even more confused to see that you request for her prolonged stay. As I said before, there is no need for meticulous dealings and bartering. My sister must be returned to Narnia at once. That was the ultimatum and it that it shall remain. Quite frankly, Aragorn, I do not care for the feelings of your prince. He has ignited a conflict and tore my family apart. He can sail across the sea, for all I care.**_

_** I apologize for my bluntness. The irritation of this constant delay is getting to me. Nevertheless, her return must be imminent.**_

_**High King of Narnia Peter the Magnificent**_

Aragorn shook, face pale with rage. He tossed the letter over to the dwarf, who caught it eagerly. The king slumped in his seat, trying to suppress his fury.

"That arrogant little brat," Gimli snarled, rising to his feet. "He won't even talk with us!"

"This is his younger sister we're dealing with, Gimli," Aragorn sighed, wiping his noble face. "He is filled with wrath. I could feel the anger through his words as if they were poison."

The doors opened, and Legolas came strolling in, grasping the pink-faced Susan in a loving embrace. They were chuckling to each other, lost in their mutual love. They stopped in front of the throne.

Legolas bowed, and Susan curtsied respectfully.

"Good morning, King Aragorn," Susan cheeped, smiling. "I trust you are well?"

"You look radiant as ever, dear child," Aragorn replied, smile strained. "Yes, I am fine. Come, I think you and your partner must listen to this."

Legolas looked at the letter beneath the dwarf's foot, and then back at Aragorn.

"They responded?" the prince asked in a sharp tone.

Aragorn solemnly nodded.

Susan's face darkened, but she listened politely as the king relayed the news.

"My older brother is incessant as ever," she snapped after hearing the response. "He is acting like a child!"

"Steady there, lass," Gimli interjected. "I don't think he's the only one guilty of that."

Legolas bowed his head, but the queen only gave a withering stare at the stout dwarf. Gimli felt the apple pie he ate for breakfast stir uncomfortably in his stomach, and he looked away.

"Gloin's son is right," Aragorn replied. "No one is innocent of this foolishness. This business is quite taxing for all of us. I will jot a reply, please, you need not worry. Go about your day. I will deal with the king."

Legolas and Susan bowed and left the hall.

Gimli grumbled and exited through a side hall.

Aragorn exhaled. He took up the parchment, dismissing the stoic guards beside the doors. Detaching himself from the throne, he looked at the small seat to his left.

He would not find help from his steward; Faramir was off visiting Edoras with his wife. He opened the back doors, heading to the comfort of his wife, his beautiful Arwen.

Then, he would write.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Aragorn, returning to the present, lifted his quill and wrote.

_**To the High King Peter the Magnificent, Ruler of Narnia:**_

_** I am displeased and astonished with your most recent reply, King Peter. A ruler, especially one of your stature and nobility, should disregard childish behavior and act like a respectful king. The lark cannot sing if its heart is not content.**_

_** It is the same with a king. How can a ruler govern his people fairly and melodiously, like the tune of a morningbird, with such discordant thoughts? My friend, who I trust with all my heart and would give my life for, is madly in love with your sister, the fair Queen Susan. I am certain, that in his desperation, he acted too brashly. He never meant to have one of your soldiers killed, even by accident.**_

_** For the final time, I will ask for peaceful negotiations at your majestic capital, Cair Paravel. We shall deal with this dilemma with order and good-will.**_

_**King Aragorn**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To the Most Esteemed King of Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn,**_

_** This is unacceptable. There is no need for negotiations. I will not let you barter my sister like a sack of goods. She is my sibling, and is mine to decide whether or not she stays.**_

_** I am disappointed, Aragorn. I would have thought you might have seen the error of your foolish friend's ways. You risk a war for the well-being of an elf prince?**_

_**High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To the High King Peter the Magnificent, Ruler of Narnia,**_

_** I too am disappointed. It seems that you are still a child, Peter. The gracious Queen Susan is a woman, and old enough to make her own decisions. If you wish to keep her, then I respect that wish. However, she has requested negotiations, and as her host, I shall follow through.**_

_** Legolas is no fool, Peter, and neither am I. If you incite a war purely on the notion of forcibly bringing your sibling back to Narnia, then it will be on your head. Remember, king, lives will be lost. If you want a war, I shall promptly wipe your armies out of my beloved land.**_

_**King Aragorn**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To King Aragorn,**_

_** You are pushing me too far, king of Gondor. I desire my sister's safe return, and I want it now. I have asked more than thrice already, and have been answered with petty pleas and deals. I will not agree to anything but her return. Narnia is forsaken without her, Aragorn. **_**We**_** are forsaken without her. I am waiting for your reply, and I hope it will be satisfactory.**_

_**King Peter**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To High King Peter,**_

_** My elf brother is dying, Peter. Susan is his only lifeline in this realm. This strain is wracking his mind and soul, pushing it to the brink. I fear he cannot go on for longer. I plead that your sister remains for one more year or so; to help him recuperate.**_

_** You must understand, friend, this is no ordinary blight. An elf cannot linger in Arda for long. Once the sea calls to him, he runs on a rapidly ticking clock. If he stays, he will fade away like many of his kind. He longs to stay here, with his dear love, your sister. He wants to spend his whole life with her, knowing that she will wither and die.**_

_** He would rather die here and see her beautiful face one last time than sail across the sea, knowing she is still here.**_

_** The remaining elves stand by the prince. They have supported their brother, knowing that he is in his time of need. They are leaving soon, and they choose to stand by love, no matter the people. A death by sword or a flight to Valinor means no difference to these staunch wood elves.**_

_** All the Free Peoples give me their hand. **_

_** Choose wisely, my friend…**_

_**King Aragorn**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To King Aragorn,**_

_** A friend's death is hard, Aragorn. I know that much.**_

_** I have readied my troops, who number in the hundred thousands.**_

_** We march for war tomorrow.**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To High King Peter the Magnificent, Ruler of Narnia,**_

_** I will prepare the border and the Forodwaith troopers of your imminent invasion. You will find that Middle-Earth is not so easily overtaken. I will fabricate a tale of a major trade disagreement, and the killing of a Narnian fawn by drunken Bordermen. Rest assured, your reputation is secure.**_

_** Remember this, however, Pevensie. I will not hesitate to decimate your troops. I will not hesitate to shred your lines. I will not hesitate to take your life myself.**_

_** This will not be a war of metal and flesh, but of broken hearts and stubborn pride.**_

_** I will meet you sooner or later, whether it be on the field of battle or the royal gardens.**_

_** I wish you the best.**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**To the Most Esteemed King of Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn,**_

_** Expect the same from me.**_

_** Tell your elf friend I am coming for him and my sister. I shall grant him a quick death, if I am up for it. No doubt my sister will be distraught, but Narnia needs her. The land is dying without the fourth child of the prophecy on her rightful throne.**_

_** If it happens that I die by your hand or you on mine, I want you to know you were a good friend. I wish things would have turned out better.**_

_** I give you my regards, fellow ruler.**_

_**Peter Pevensie**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**PRESENT DAY**

Susan knelt by her lover's side, gently stroking his pale and perspiring forehead. His long hair was clumped and matted, staining the plush white pillow with sweat. The room was dark and candle-lit, the occasional nurse entering and checking his fever.

The outlook was bleak, they had told her. Elves that became like this would not have long to live.

She cursed her brother for doing this to her and Legolas. All they did was love each other. What sin was that?

Aragorn had informed her of Narnia's apparent problem. Famine, disease, and droughts were striking the land, and the monarchs had related this to Susan's flight. She was greatly unsettled by this, worrying for her beloved land, but she knew she had to stay.

Stay for his sake.

She kissed her elf lovingly on the cheek, tears mingling with the sheen of sweat on his fair face.

"We'll get through this," she whispered. "We always do."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir awoke, the morning bell tolling incessantly and sending a ripple of unease through the sleeping fort.

"What in Eru's name?" Elbarad groaned, throwing the linen sheets off his body.

"Wha's goin' on?" Aranur murmured, half asleep. His black curls were in disarray, masking his confused face.

The rangers in the barracks were rising nervously, some clutching their short sabers. Deremir grunted, sprinted to the window, and peered out the building.

Bordermen were in chaos, running around the place gathering weapons and men. Deremir cursed and grabbed Elbarad.

"I want the Dunédain ready and in tip-top shape," he ordered his lieutenant. "They have come earlier than expected."

Elbarad grimaced and went about the rangers, yelling commands harshly.

Deremir threw on his cloak and ran out the door, nearly running over two hobbits in full battle dress.

"We want to fight, Deremir!" Pippin exclaimed, clad in Gondorian Citadel armor, a white tree emblazoned on the leather chest plate. "We'll be a great help!"

"He's right!" Merry added, dressed in Rohirrim combat armor and leather. "We fought in the War of the Ring! We'll show those Narnians a thing or two about the Brandybucks and Tooks!"

Deremir brushed by them, readying his bow.

"Help by preparing the escape route. There will not be much fighting this dawn, Halflings."

The hobbits pouted, but obediently went to the southern end of the camp, where Bordermen were unlocking a steel door two meters underground. The "backdoor" was built by the first troopers, in case of hopeless siege situations. The door would hold for a significant amount of time, allowing the garrison to slip under the forest and into Arnor.

Deremir climbed up the allure, joining the stoic rangers at the battlements.

The Narnian Army had surrounded the fort, covering every inch of the forest terrain. Red flags and armor dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see, even poking out through the dense canopy. A blonde man in steel-crimson cloth armor trotted his steed to the front of the army. A pair of centaurs went with him, bearing flags with the Lion etched into the scarlet linen.

"I have said this speech too many times, so I'll put it in short terms," he shouted. "Surrender the fort and weapons and none of you will be harmed in any way."

Deremir responded by throwing the helm of a faun down to the ground. The cracked headpiece was carried by the morning breeze, landing with a thud at the king's feet.

Peter set his jaw, but remained quiet for a while.

"So," he began. "You are the fabled rangers of the North."

"My men and I are but a few of the noble warriors in Middle-Earth. We are not easily subdued."

"Or caught," another man piped, a black-haired man wearing the same elaborate armor. He nodded at the brown-cloaked rangers, approving what he saw. "You gave us quite some trouble, ranger."

"You will discover we have much more to offer," the captain replied, a shark-like grin on his face.

"True," Peter responded. "But then again, so have we."

He gestured to the front line of his troops. They moved apart, shaking the ground with their joined action. The trees shook, leaves falling as if it was autumn.

Four giants rose out of the canopy, brandishing wooden staves as large as gates. The monsters, dressed in common garb, growled menacingly at the stunned rangers. The gargantuan men started to walk forward, down the path the army had cleared for them.

Each step quickened Deremir's heart tenfold.

"Escape this, Dunédain," Edmund called, racing into the underbrush.

The giants roared and swung.

**AN: R&R please! I would appreciate it a lot! **


	7. Gods, Prisoners, Refugees, and Rohirrim

**AN: IIIIII'mmm BACK! Sorry for the wait, guys, I've been busy (school and whatnot). This chapter, sadly, will not have the usual big battle scenes where Narnians and rangers chop each other up (awwwwwwww). I wanted to go more in depth with the characters, and even introduce some background characters with some background I creatively implemented (you'll see what I mean). I decided to circulate my two stories again, so when I update my other one, I'll try to get back to this one as soon as I can. Thanks to all the reviewers who cared to give some feedback. I LOVE YOU GUYS! To the ones who didn't, there's no bad blood, but I'm a guy who takes things a bit too personally (which means I go pretty much overboard), so I tend to overreact when I see a lack of reviews. Am I rambling? Sorry, back to the story! **

**DISCLAIMER: I own diddly squat (disclaimer from one of my favorite stories: Gohan's Dilemma by WingedFreedom622. Read it!)**

The Heavenly Hall. A chamber that spanned countless distances, so large that a star appeared the size of a dust mote. Galaxies swirled in circular patterns in the midst of the great room, giving it a glorious light. The Hall was nowhere, yet everywhere all the same. It resided in every corner, but it was still so far. Only a chosen few could ever lay eyes on the magnificent chamber. Only a few could feel the pressing aura wrap around their bodies and fill them with an unending satisfaction. Most eons, the Hall was be left to itself, ever distant and present in the universe.

The Hall was not empty this time.

A rift opened in the space between worlds, and a being of pure light entered the Heavenly Hall. It was vaguely man-shaped; a muscular form with no external features. White light exuded from the immense figure, and galaxies elongated as it glided effortlessly through the stars. It had no real name. It was named by those he had created, countless of races and species that inhabited the known realm. He was the All-High, the Father of All. The One.

Eru Ilúvatar was here.

The creator muttered words in a language known only by the Highest, a tongue that had not been spoken in countless millennia. The words flowed through time and space, altering reality even its simplest state. The words seemed to have no drastic effect as the echoes receded into nonexistence.

A gaping hole tore through the continuum, and the Great Lion entered with a mighty roar.

He was magnificent. The son of the Emperor-Over-The-Sea, he was every inch his father. Light, golden fur rippled across his lithe, feline torso, and a thick brown mane crowned his head and muzzle. He snarled, his fangs blindingly white. Raw, natural power leaked from every pore in his favored form, colliding with Eru's in a match of Highest powers.

A dozen galaxies came to the brink of collapse, but the One halted their destruction with a wave of his hand.

"Must you always come with such unnecessary pomp and glory, Aslan?" Eru asked, his voice warm and melodious. It echoed on and on, finally stopping after a few moments.

"I come not with pride, but with anger, Ilúvatar," The Lion snapped. He spoke with the voice of an elderly man, yet command and power laced his words. "We swore never to speak the Tongue of the Highest ever again. Surely you do not break that sacred vow; it is one of the Old Magics."

"I do not have time for the Old Magics, son of the Emperor," he replied, eliciting a surprised growl from the Lion. "You know why I summoned you. This predicament is not favorable for both our worlds."

Aslan grunted and shook his mane. Golden light fell from his fur like luminous dust. His amber eyes glimmered with barely restrained fury and sadness.

"I am aware of this, Eru. Do you not think that I share my children's pain? They cry out to me every second! I hear their fervent pleas, but I can do nothing. You know full well what He said. You know what He told us. Not even my father can override His wishes!"

Eru noted the guilt and self-hatred that tightened his fellow Highest's words.

"We cannot let our children destroy each other, Aslan," Eru responded, voice soothing. "We must stop their war with whatever we have at our disposal."

"And go against the Supreme High's command?" Aslan said incredulously. Shock marred the noble lion's features. "You know what he can do to ignorant rebels. Look at Cthulhu! He was one of the strongest of us all, fair in form and stature. He was His right-hand, His sword and shield! Then, he thought he could ascend above the Highest of the High. The Supreme smote him to the ground like a pest."

"Then he shifted him to an unspeakable horror, a terrifying tentacled being that could drive a mortal insane with one sight. He gave his allegiance to the Evil Ones, then vanished to rule his watery realm of darkness." Ilúvatar interjected, his bright form changing momentarily to an ugly crimson as he recalled those fateful days of rebellion. "We all know what happened to Cthulhu the Great."

"Then why, my brother, do you still intend to defy His orders?"

Eru was silent. Galaxies continued to swirl, stars resumed their shining. Both great beings were still as Aslan awaited the answer of the One. Eru's color shifted to a warm blue. He leaned on one blazing leg and crossed his shining arms.

"Do you remember when you made your children, son of the Emperor?" he asked suddenly, his tone full of old joy and pride.

Aslan's expression softened, and his eyes grew glazed and distant. He nodded unconsciously, remembering the Dawn of Narnia as if it were yesterday.

"I do, Eru, I do."

"I recall when I formed the Ainur out of nothing. I showed them Arda, instructed them and gifted them the Flame Imperishable. I declared Eä, granting reality to the Vision of the World. All was well. Then, something terrible happened."

"If I recall correctly, you had a bad apple," Aslan cut in, surprising Eru with the use of such a mundane, human term.

"Yes, quite true. Melkor did not sing with our harmony, he did not agree with the melody I had preordained. He went against my wishes and left the others. When I handed my world to the Valar, I continued to watch as my children fought, shedding precious blood on the beautiful land I had envisioned. My heart broke when I witnessed Melkor, the first of the Dark Powers, thrown into the Void. Do you see my point, Aslan?"

"I do. However, you also supported mine. Look what happened to your upstart Ainur. He got thrown into the Celestial Prison, where no light or hope can be felt when the doors are shut."

"The Supreme will not do that. His benevolence and grace is beyond my children's ways. We only wish to end a conflict that would tear both our worlds apart!"

"Narnia is not my only realm," the Great Lion pointed out in a vain attempt to stop the One's intense barrage.

"It was your most treasured, as Middle-Earth is mine. The best of our experiments, the first true worlds we made when He granted us the Divine Gift. I made a cheap imitation, something that paled compared to the Supreme's. We must save them, Aslan.

"It is the only way."

Aslan snarled, the low timbre seeming to shake the very confines of the Hall. Cosmic entities shuddered once more, but it was soon gone. Aslan hung his head, now knowing what he must do.

"How?" was all he said.

Eru's form glowed a triumphant yellow, filling the universe with a glorious brilliance. He shined even brighter than the hottest sun at that moment.

"I was not wrong in my assumption of you, it seems," he chuckled. "Your father would have usually denied me at the spot."

"That is what I will do if you do not supply a solution to your preposterous plot!" Aslan barked angrily.

Eru lifted his hands amiably, then went on.

"Our children have started a war through love, and it is through love we shall end it. There are key players in this conflict, individuals that we shall prod to success."

"How do you know this will work out?" Aslan asked skeptically.

"Look and you shall see."

Ilúvatar touched a random spot in space with a delicate finger. The spot rippled violently, warping stars and asteroids and anything else that was in its path. The movement ceased, and in the end an image of a sleeping boy appeared on the spot.

"Who is this?" the Great Lion asked, padding over to where Eru stood. He came up to Eru's waist in his lion form.

"This, my friend, is Eldarion," he replied with great love in his words. "He is the son of Elessar, the heir of Isildur."

"Judging by his blood, he wields astonishing power," Aslan grunted, slightly impressed.

"With the mixture of elf and Dúnedain swimming in his blood, he is the strongest of mortal men. He is much like the kings of old that ruled when Arda was still young yet ravaged by war."

"Why do you choose him?"

"He is part Dúnedain and elf, as I stated before. He is essential to two other individuals I have chosen."

"The sturdy ranger and the lovesick elf-prince?" the Lion guessed.

Eru paused, giving Aslan a long stare.

"You are not the only one who watches your world," Aslan said, allowing himself a sly grin that seemed comical on his feline face.

"Yes…them." Eru replied, slowly turning away from Aslan. "I have established a psychic link between the three. They will vaguely experience each other's emotions and predicaments. The link will not be noticeable until a great deal of time. As of now, it is enough to change the course of some events."

"It is a risky plan…" the son of the Emperor muttered, amber eyes locked onto the boy. His brown curls fell atop his fair face. "He is of noble stature, even when at such a young age. I see why you chose him."

"Yes. However, I will not be alone. You must choose someone who will help influence the Narnians."

"Luckily, my friend, I know just the right satyr for the job."

Aslan turned away, long tail swishing imperiously as he padded away. His footfalls sent ripples through the universal sector they inhabited.

"Remember, Eru, the Supreme does not take kindly with meddlers. The Law is set. Not many can escape from breaking that Law."

"Do not worry, Lion." Eru responded, a rift opening behind him. The image of Eldarion still floated. "The Highest are not omniscient, regardless of the tales our children weave about us. We must resolve this quickly. Take care of your satyr."

"Keep watch over your elves and Dúnedain, Ilúvatar," Aslan said. "Do not be concerned with my children."

He faced the black void and roared.

Another rift opened. In the background, one could picture rolling viridian hills, complete with lush mountains and fertile rivers. The Summer Country awaited the return of their prince. Aslan vaguely felt the overbearing aura of his father prickle against his hide. He thought about what he would tell the Emperor.

"Farewell, All-High. And best of blessings to you."

The Lion vanished from the Heavenly Hall.

Eru silently turned to the sleeping Eldarion. With tender lovingness, he gently brushed his finger over the brow of the young prince.

"Awake, little one."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

In the royal chambers of Minas Tirith, Eldarion, the prince of Gondor, awoke with a startled gasp.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Legolas sat up in bed, long hair matted to his forehead, a groan escaping from his cracked lips. Susan, who was half-asleep beside him, let out a little squeak of surprise.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir, Third Captain of the Gray Company, felt a splash of water on his face. He gasped, his eyes finally opening.

"DEREMIR, WAKE UP!" someone was calling frantically.

The ranger moaned and cursed, rising to his feet unsteadily. He swayed on both his feet, his leather-clad form doubling in his vision. A firm hand grasped his shoulder and turned him around.

"Elbarad?" Deremir asked, voice hoarse. His elderly friend stood two feet away, a relieved expression on his wrinkled face.

"Thank the Valar you're okay, captain," the lieutenant sighed. "We thought you were already gone!"

A few of the rangers gave murmurs of assent. Deremir spun and realized that his company was gathered around him. They were in a forest glade, far from the scene he had last remembered before he apparently lost consciousness. With grim clarity, Deremir realized that almost half the ranger's numbers were present.

"What happened?" the captain asked, his heart tightening.

Elbarad grimaced, but he told his leader what happened.

"The giants got you on the first blow. Believe me, the sight of your flying body was enough to take the confidence from any of our men. I took charge however, but it wasn't enough. We lost fourteen rangers and thirty-six Bordermen on the wall. I ordered the retreat, all the while dragging your sorry body to the rear exit. Thanks to your Halfling friends, we were able to get most of the garrison out of there."

"Did the Narnians catch up?" Deremir asked. He was saddened to hear the deaths of his beloved brothers, but he needed to hear what occurred.

"Eventually, yes," Elbarad grunted, but with a slight to his gruff voice. There was something he wasn't telling the captain.

"Spit it out, Elbarad," Deremir snapped.

The old ranger sighed, and a few tears arose on his eyes.

"Lenafathan, the garrison commander, took forty of his men and horses to hold them off. They rode out to the courtyard to meet the foe. However, when we took a headcount later, three were missing."

"Who?"

"Your hobbit friends, Merry and Pippin. They must have rode out with the Bordermen without us noticing."

Deremir felt a pang of sorrow wrack his heart for his newfound friends, but he pressed on.

"You said three," he said. "Who was the third?"

"IT WAS ARANUR, FOR ERU'S SAKE!" Elbarad cried, the tears pouring now. "SURE, HE WAS A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING PRISSY POLITICIAN'S SON, BUT HOW COULD I HAVE KNOWN THAT HE HAD A SELF-SACRIFICING BONE IN HIS BODY? HE MUST'VE BEEN THE FIRST TO DIE!"

Deremir watched awkwardly as his friend broke down in the middle of the glen. A few of the rangers crossed over to aid him, but most of them just watched. A few were probably not too sad that Aranur decided to hold off the Narnians. The ranger captain removed his green cloak and draped it over his lieutenant.

"Calm now, Elbarad. The time of mourning shall soon come. For now, we must depart from here and warn Arnor of the impending occupation."

"What of the Halflings and Aranur?" the young ranger Torin asked. He was heavily perspiring like the rest of the mixed Ranger/Bordermen survivors. Deremir was surprised at the youth's concern for the people he barely knew.

"I fear there is nothing we _can_ do, Torin son of Glorin," the captain said, standing as he did so. He stretched, hearing and feeling his bones crack. Deremir ran a weary palm over his red hair and looked at Torin sadly. "Even if they somehow survived, they are lost to us. We would surely perish if we attempted to free them."

Torin nodded and hung his head.

Deremir straightened, catching the attention of the soldiers he now commanded.

"Take heart, brothers of the sword!" he called as loud as he could. "All is not lost! The sun has not yet set on this blessed land, nor has the sword spilt its precious lifeblood! They have received but a taste of what Middle-Earth has to offer. I tell you this, my brethren, they shall PAY!"

He was answered with a heartfelt cheer from the men. Deremir was glad to know that even though they had run through miles of tundra and forest, they still had the strength to be courageous.

They resumed their journey, Dúnedain and Bordermen side by side, as they headed into the land of Arnor.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Judging by the maps we took, that was the last Border fort they had established. We are at the edge of Arnor now."

King Peter thoughtfully scratched the golden stubble on his chin, blue eyes perusing the crinkled old map atop the table. A harsh wind blew through the Narnian camp, nearly blowing away the map and the mahogany table. Peter wrapped his cloak firmly about his body, letting in a sharp intake of breath.

"It's damn cold," Edward hissed beside him. He himself was wrapped in an elaborate fur coat, a keepsake from his younger years. It looked vaguely like a woman's apparel, but no one had the gall to tell that to his face.

"Thought it'd get a tad bit better as we headed farther south, but _noooo_, fall in northern Arnor is no better." Peter replied, rubbing his arms fervently.

"Good day outside, isn't it?" Mesinthus remarked, strolling down an aisle of tents to join the brothers outside the royal encampment. "What're you wearing those ridiculous fur coats for?"

Both kings shot him a glare.

The armored satyr chuckled, coming up beside them.

"Did you hear the news?" he said, sipping a mug of elderberry wine.

"What news?" Edmund inquired, eyes locked on the captain's drink.

"The Telmarines have found themselves some odd-looking dwarves. They said they dragged their unconscious bodies out of the rubble at Aran."

"Oh?" Peter put in, surveying the camp idly as he continued to rub himself on the arms. "I didn't know they had dwarves this far northwest in Middle-Earth."

"Funny thing is, they're supposedly not even dwarves. The prisoners call them "Halflings," or "hobbits". Their kind apparently inhabits a region south of Arnor. A peaceful place, they tell us."

"Interesting," Edmund murmured, licking his dry lips. He gestured to Mesinthus' cup of wine. "Say, captain, would you mind letting me have a sip?"

"Of course, my liege." The satyr handed him the mug obediently.

The young king downed the wine in one hasty gulp. He sighed after he finished, rubbing his chest and belly appreciatively. He thanked the royal captain, giving his horns a quick tap. Mesinthus lifted an eyebrow, but otherwise he was still.

"I would like to see these "hobbits" for myself," the High King commented suddenly, detaching himself from the outdoor map table. "They are intriguing to me."

"I shall lead them to you," the satyr bleated. He gestured to a clear aisle running down the southern path of the camp. "Right this way, my kings."

They followed Mesinthus through the giant camp. Many of the soldiers stopped by as they passed and bowed, showing their respect to the monarchs. A talking bear had plodded over to them to tell them of how great leaders they were. Peter and Edmund were doing their best to smile and wave, but they soon found out that their faces were beginning to become numb. They were grateful when they finally reached the Telmarine section of the encampment.

They too had erected a large tent of gray canvas. Through the thick, translucent material the kings could see a substantial fire burning at the center. Raucous laughter and singing could be heard inside. Mesinthus stepped back, with a hint of distaste, and allowed the kings to enter through the partly open tent flap.

Immediately they were met with a barrage of music, the scent of wine, and a whole lot of Telmarines. The foreign men were gathered around the bonfire, some half-naked in their undergarments. The olive-skinned men's attention was on two midgets hopping around the fire.

At first glance, they looked like small children. A mop of curly brown hair rested atop their skulls, and they wore small green vests over silk dress shirts and trousers. At closer inspection, however, they bore the faces of young men, mature and even growing stubble.

Peter cleared his throat, but that didn't seem to grab the focus of the drunken mercenaries.

"HEY! ATTENTION SIGNORS!" he yelled hoarsely.

The music and dancing ceased. The Telmarines turned to the kings, annoyed at the sudden intrusion on the festivities. When they say who had come in, curses were dispelled and shirts put on as they hastily tried to organize themselves. This took a full two minutes as the mercenaries pulled on their clothes and hid the stores of _sangre_ they had smuggled.

"Where is General Mantéra?" Edmund demanded.

The general pulled his way out of the crowd of bewildered Telmarines. He cursed in Telmar as he struggled to push his men out of the way and arrange his belt. He finally made it to the kings, his silver armor looking haphazardly donned. His hair was in disarray, and his cheeks were a slight pinkish color.

"You called for me, your highnesses?" he said, voice slightly slurred.

Peter lifted an eyebrow, and Edmund crossed his arms sternly. Mesinthus couldn't help but let out a barely restrained snort. The Telmarine leered at the satyr.

"What is all this?" Peter inquired, spreading his arms to indicate the tent.

"My men and I thought we would take a break from all the fighting, my lieges. Of course, with the discovery of these interesting specimens, we couldn't help but start the festivities. Truly, even you think that these Halflings are ridiculous."

"Oi!" one of the "hobbits" cried out. They turned to the outraged creature, whose plump face was red with embarrassment and indignation. "We aren't your playthings! Let us go this instant!"

Surprisingly, the hobbit had the voice of a young man. _How many more surprises will we get from these strange individuals?_ Peter thought questioningly.

General Mantéra's face turned an ugly shade of black. He barked a command in Telmar at two of his men. They nodded and crossed over to the confused Halflings. One of the Telmarines whipped out a willow cane and began to strike the first hobbit on the rump. The mercenaries laughed as the soldier chased the creatures around the fire.

Peter walked over to the whip-bearing mercenary and lifted his leg. The High King gave a mighty kick that sent the soldier sprawling near the fire. The soldiers were deadly quiet as the offender gathered himself up the ground.

"There shall be none of this!" Peter cried strongly. "We do not treat our prisoners like swine." He turned to the Telmarine general. "I expected more out of you _and_ your men, Scipio. Five days without rations, for all of you! You'll have to catch your own food."

Peter whirled around with a swish of his navy blue cape. He ignored the outcries of the deprived Telmarines as he exited the stuffy tent and into the gloomy morning. Edmund followed after him, and soon after Mesinthus exited with both the hobbits at his calves.

"Now what?" the satyr asked, awkwardly trying to ignore the gaping stares the Halflings directed at him.

Peter glanced at the disheveled hobbits. They returned it, their dark eyes filled with an uncanny pride and courage.

"Take them to the others, captain. Make sure they are treated well. I don't want any vengeful Telmarines sneaking in to gut the poor bastards."

Mesinthus nodded and bowed. He tugged the barefoot hobbits away from the king, apparently leading them to the captives. Edmund and Peter watched as he disappeared around a corner of tents.

"Peculiar things," Edmund remarked, brushing his bare chin. "I would've liked to have one at our court-"

Peter shoved him roughly. Edmund dropped his mug as he stumbled back a few steps. He cursed under his breath and picked up the empty mug.

"I was only joking," he muttered, wiping some grass off the ceramic container.

"Come, we have more planning to do." Peter announced.

They walked away.

\

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Merry and Pippin gave a simultaneous cry as they landed roughly on the ground.

"You will be given daily rations and a place to sleep," the strange armored satyr said, wiping his hooves on the soil. "The Prison Tent might not look like much, but you'll soon call it home."

He exited through the tent flap and was gone.

The Prison Tent was a large encampment, almost as spacious as the Royal Tent. A few dozen cots were set up in rows inside the gray canvas interior, most bearing wounded Bordermen. Many lamps were arranged around the inside walls, supplying a feeble light in the room. The two hobbits hesitantly started to find adjacent cots.

"Those men are really nasty," Pippin grumbled, climbing onto the man-sized cot. He pulled some grass stalks out of his curls. "You'd have sworn they never saw a decent hobbit in their life!"

"That's because they _haven't_ seen a decent hobbit in their life, Pip," Merry replied harshly, brushing stray dirt marks off his elven cloak. "I'm pretty sure no Narnian has ever seen a hobbit until today!"

Pippin was shocked. Merry rolled his eyes and lay back on the mattress. He was surprised that the Narnians supplied such comfortable bedding for their captives.

"Go to sleep, Pip. They'll probably have us working at dawn at the morrow."

Pippin muttered something unintelligibly, but he eventually settled back into the cot, worn out and exhausted. Drowsiness eventually overtook the two Halflings, and sleep was just about on the verge of claiming their minds.

"UUUUNNNNNNGGHHH!"

Merry and Pippin sat up immediately, cursing the Valar.

"What in Eru was that?" Pippin cried, whipping his head back and forth.

"I think it's him…" Merry pointed to a man who was lying on a cot not far from them. "Hey, Pip, he's wearing ranger garb! Do you think it's one of Deremir's men?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm taking a look anyway."

Before his friend could protest, Pippin jumped out of bed and approached the weeping man. As he came closer, he recognized the ranger almost instantly. It was the braggart that strutted around the fort like he owned all of Middle-Earth. He could tell by the flowing locks that adorned his skull.

"Psssst!" Pippin hissed amid his sobbing. "Psssst! Quit it out! We're your friends!"

"No one is my friend!" the young man whined pitifully. He covered his fair face with his slender palms. "I have no companions in this hell that has overtaken me! I shall never see the light of day again!'

Pippin rolled his eyes. He was soon joined by Merry.

"Who are you?" the older hobbit asked, resting his elbows on the edge of the cot.

"I am called Aranur," the man wept. "I am the son of the most famous politician in Gondor. I joined the rangers expecting to be versed in the art of concealment and ensnaring young women, but alas, it would not be. I soon found myself slaying ugly goats and getting captured by smelly Narnians! Oh, what would my father think?"

Merry and Pippin exchanged a puzzled look.

"How did you get caught in the first place?" Pippin inquired, beginning to understand that this ranger most certainly did not have the skills to set them free.

"As we were escaping the fort, I saw a group of Bordermen run to the stables. I followed them, asking where they were headed to. They ignored me, but I saw them unlatch several horses. I began to understand! They were going to escape! I mounted a horse and began to ride with them, expecting a safe passage. However, I was too caught up in the moment to realize that they were idiots who sought a glorious death at the hands of the enemy. I was knocked out by a centaur almost right away."

He opened one red eye and stared at the two hobbits.

"By the way, how did you get here?" he asked, sniffing.

"We were idiots who sought a glorious death at the hands of the enemy," they chirped, giving Aranur toothy smiles.

The ranger moaned and fell back.

"I'm in hell."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir knocked once on the cabin door.

Two of his men, Torin and Felanor, flanked him, leaning on the posts in front of the forest house. The rest of the men were hidden at the edge of the grounds, invisible in the shadows.

After a few seconds, the door opened a crack. Deremir saw a gray eye peer through the open slit. The eye sized him up, and narrowed.

"I seek no business with rangers," the occupant grunted. He was obviously a man, a grizzled one at that. "Find refuge someplace else; I recommend the Traveler's Inn."

The door began to close, but Deremir stopped it with his boot.

"We do not come to quarter, kind man. We come to warn you." he said, locking gazes with the indignant man. "Arnor will soon be overtaken by the Narnians. You best gather your family and belongings and head south."

The stranger snorted.

"Yeah, right. By who, _Narnians_?"

Deremir and the other two rangers were silent. The man chortled, and he started to shut them out.

"You are insane. Leave us alone."

Deremir nodded once to Felanor. The middle-aged ranger returned the gesture and dragged their secret weapon into the man's line of sight.

Glenthus, the satyr prisoner, gave a dry grin.

"I am Sergeant Glenthus of the Narnian Army. I am a big bad monster who wants to eat your children. Raaawwr, fear me!"

At the sight of the golden-furred satyr, the man's eye widened and the door was shut with a bang. Frightened outcries could be heard from inside the cabin, and numerous footsteps rattled the foundation.

"That should've got their attention," Torin remarked.

The door opened. A large man with auburn hair covering most of his face appeared at the doorstep, and at his feet were two children, a boy and a girl. They paled at the sight of the half-naked satyr and grasped their father's legs tightly.

"I'll head south," the man said between clenched teeth. He gripped a sharpened lumberjack axe in his right hand. "Just get that thing away from my children."

Felanor shoved the prisoner down the porch steps. Deremir and Torin stepped back to allow the family to walk away. They were each holding cases of hastily prepared belongings, such as clothes and money. The man untied two horses from a yard post.

He picked up both his children and set them on one steed while he mounted the other, a giant palomino. The creatures were nervous around the presence of the strange satyr. The lumberjack soothed both horses, all the while fixing the sergeant a hate-filled stare.

"Farewell," Deremir called. "Warn others as you head south."

The men nodded and started to ride, followed closely by the horse bearing the kids. Soon, they disappeared down a thin forest path and were gone.

"Nice folks around here," Glenthus piped. "I think I'll stay."

Felanor slapped him upside the skull. Glenthus took it, a smile stretched tight on his muzzle. Deremir glared at his subordinate.

"Cease, Felanor. We do not treat our captives like that." he lectured.

"With all due respect, captain, tell that to our fourteen brothers who fell the three days ago."

Felanor promptly turned heel and walked back to the others. Torin moved to reprimand him, but Deremir held him back.

"The pain's still there, Torin," Deremir whispered. "Mere words cannot mend a wound such as that. Only time can."

Torin nodded slowly.

The other rangers reached the two. They were thirteen rangers in all, a far cry from the original detachment of the Gray Company that arrived in the Forodwaith. Deremir surveyed his men. They were all haggard; weary from the restless days of nonstop travel and journeying. Many of them had begun to grow unruly beards, a testament to their exhaustion. He looked down. The boots that covered their feet had become torn and ruined. A few toes poked out from gaping holes, caked with dry blood. Deremir looked down at his own feet to see that his was not so different.

Total exhaustion attacked his body at that instant. He fell to his knees, mind tottering. He vaguely saw the rangers gather around him, strong arms helping him up. Elbarad was there, concern on his old visage.

"You best get some rest, captain," he said worriedly. "Help me get him inside the house!"

Deremir was lifted into the cabin. He was carried up a flight of stairs and into a small room, presumably the father's. A drawer at the side of the bed was on the floor, contents spilled. The man sure rushed. A tiny portrait of a beautiful woman lay cracked on the ground, abandoned.

They set their leader on the bed, being careful not to touch his tender spots. Deremir felt himself relax as the soft linen met his weary back. The rangers soon left him alone, Elbarad giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

Sleep overtook him, and after three days, Deremir rested.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Eldarion walked down the empty hall, his long nightshirt hanging loosely from his small frame. He walked with a tired limp; something prompted him to go to sleep, but he did not want to. He needed to speak with his mother.

He paused, looking at a small mirror hanging on the right wall. His hair was a mess, and his eyes dark and sunken. A deathly pallor claimed his skin, changing its normally healthy tan to a sickly white. He whimpered, but moved on.

Soon, he made it to his parent's room, which was guarded by Citadel Captains. The men in the silver armor looked at the boy, now knowing what to do. When they say his present state, they blanched and looked away.

Eldarion knocked once.

The door opened, revealing a stunning she-elf in scarlet dress robes. Her skin was an appealing white, different from Eldarion's. Black hair cascaded down her shoulders like a dark waterfall.

"Yes?" she asked, voice like musical chimes. She glanced down and saw her son. She gasped and covered her mouth. "My boy, what has happened?"

"I want to sleep, _naneth_, but I must speak with you and father." he croaked, voice feeble.

"_Esteë_, Eldarion. You look terrible! Come inside, little one. You may speak with us."

She guided him in gently. Arwen Undomiel dismissed the guards and closed the wooden double-doors.

King Aragorn entered the room from the bath quarters, a smile on his aging face. He wore his usual royal garb: A black vest emblazoned with the White Tree over a silver silk dress suit.

"Arwen, _meleth nin_, let us go to the garden-"

He caught sight of his ill prince. He let out a strangled gasp and rushed to his child, deeply concerned.

"Eldarion, what has befallen you?" he asked quietly, a stricken expression on his face.

"He says he wants to slumber, _meleth nin_, yet he cannot. He wishes to speak with us." Arwen explained, rubbing her son on his frail shoulders.

"Well, speak, Eldarion!" Aragorn said.

"I…" he began, tears falling down his yellow cheeks. "I…think…t-that I'm becoming insane, papa."

"Do not say that, Eldarion!" Elessar cried, followed by a choked sob from his wife. "Why do you say that?"

"I…"

"Yes?"

"I think Eru talks with me at night."

The boy fell to the ground, unconscious.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Legolas was dying.

His time was soon at an end, the All-High had told him in his dark dreams. Death would claim his soul, and he would lay eyes on Mandos, the Judge. Life was fleeing from his body, but hope was not lost.

Susan watched him with teary eyes, brushing a slender palm over his perspiring face. She knew what a struggle it was for him to even remain coherent, so she did not bother to rouse him from his long slumber. The queen was content with waiting.

"S-Susan?"

The whisper was weak, but it was enough for the monarch of Narnia to hear.

"Legolas?" she answered. "Legolas, are you awake?"

"Yes, my love."

Susan wrapped her arms gently around his prone figure. They lay there for a few moments, deep in their time of togetherness. She withdrew, concern etched onto her lovely features.

"Rest now, Legolas," she whispered. "You need rest."

"No," he replied, attempting to sit up. "I cannot. Sleep is not coming to me now. I will take this time to tell you something."

"What?" she responded, brushing her hair over one ear.

"I will fight, Susan."

She shook her head fervently, but Legolas clenched her with firm hands. His pale, feline face was wracked with anguish, but he strove further.

"I am the Prince of Mirkwood, the son of King Thranduil. My people have taken up arms to fight and die for my cause, and I shall not let them go alone. I have made up my mind, Susan. I travel in a week."

"You cannot," Susan whimpered, trying in vain to keep her great love standing at her side. "You will die against my brothers' army. Stay here, be safe within Aragorn's stronghold!"

"My love, hope is thin. Even Aragorn's time runs short."

Susan gasped.

"How can you say that?" she breathed incredulously.

"Eru has spoken to me, Susan. He whispers words of strength, but also of doom. My destiny is to either die on the field of battle or sail to the Blessed Realm."

He choked back a strangled sob.

"I cannot be with you, my love."

Susan wept alongside him, their sorrow seeming to permeate the room and the castle itself.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The news spread through Arnor like wildfire. Shops were closed down, homes abandoned. Colonists were fleeing in a mass exodus, trampling the earth under them day after day. Men who sought to be famous pioneers found their dreams vanquished. Families seeking a new life in a forgotten land discovered their homes ransacked by desperate townspeople. Rumors and gossip traveled through the people, reaching Bree and Eriador to the south, Eregion and Dunland west of the Misty Mountains, and the distant villages to the east.

Narnia was coming.

Soon, the news reached Rohan. Frightened colonists flooded into the Land of the Horse-Lords, clogging the main roads and inns with thousands. Even the abandoned stronghold of Isengard was not left untouched. Hundreds of families sheltered inside the black tower, caring nothing of its tainted history.

King Éomer was shocked to see a horde of people crowd outside the gates of Edoras. He stood on the stone courtyard of the Golden Hall, his yellow hair flowing unbound by his crown. He bore the fur cloak his uncle wore before him.

"Gamling!" he called. "What is the meaning of this?"

Gamling, already pushing eighty but still of strong bearing, walked up to him and bowed. He still wore the same Rohirrim leather he had worn all those years ago.

"My lord, they have arrived from Arnor. They claim that the Narnians have occupied the land by the tens of thousands. No inch of soil was left unstained by invader's feet."

Éomer scratched his short, golden beard thoughtfully. A commotion turned him around. Faramir and Eowyn stood there, both dressed in their royal garb. The Steward of Gondor had visited Rohan for two months, seeking a quiet place to be with his wife, Éomer's sister. Eowyn, a striking woman with flowing blonde hair, stared at her brother with questioning eyes.

"What has gone on?" Faramir asked, running a hand through his wavy brown hair.

"The Narnians have occupied Arnor," the king spat. "I am told that thousands of refugees have entered Rohan."

Faramir nodded understandingly, and Eowyn placed a hand over her open mouth.

"Brother, we must let them in! They seek shelter!" she said, concerned.

"Edoras is not a fortress, sister. We are already full without these colonists. I am afraid we must order them to head to Helm's Deep or even further east." he said sadly.

"Unprotected?" Eowyn gasped, taken aback. "Helm's Deep is many leagues from here, Gondor even further! Do you not remember what happened the last time we attempted such a journey? That was with warriors!"

"I know, Eowyn!" Éomer snapped. A vein popped in his tanned forehead. "I know. What would you have me do?"

"With all due respect, honored king," Faramir interjected, stepping in between the two siblings. "I can take a contingent of my men and lead some of the refugees due east. I am sure we can handle any stray orcs or wild men."

Brother and sister looked at the generous Steward. Eowyn longed for him to stay by her side, but she knew it was the wisest choice. She kissed him gently and embraced him. Éomer was silent for a moment, but he soon nodded.

"I was stumped by this sudden turn of events, Faramir, but your judgment still remains a firm anchor. You may go; I shall send Gamling and a company along with you."

Gamling, who was standing off to the side, nodded and smiled at Faramir, a fellow friend. Faramir returned the smile and hugged his love, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, farewell. He was about to leave when a shout brought him around.

"My lords!" a Rohirrim guard called from the lower steps. He leaned on a flag post tiredly but continued to speak. "Dúnedain from the north wish to speak with you!"

Faramir stood, stunned, as a group of darkly clad rangers walked haggardly from the gate and up the steps. The lead ranger, a tall man with crimson hair, bowed to the Steward and to the rulers of Rohan.

"I am honored to be in your presence, Faramir son of Denethor." the man sighed, weariness permeating his tone.

"You are tired, brother," Faramir said. "Come, tell me your business."

"We have fought the enemy in the Forodwaith, my lord. We have seen their strength firsthand. I lost half my men attempting to halt their advance, and all the Border forts were destroyed."

"What you say is true?" Éomer cut in, stepping over to the thirteen rangers who were huddled closely together. "Their numbers?"

"Astounding. A fraction of them could have burnt Arnor to the ground in less than a week." the noble ranger said with grim honesty.

"How are we to believe you, ranger of the north?" Eowyn asked, her fair figure standing proud and firm atop the courtyard.

The ranger met her stare and gestured to his men with a hand. They parted, revealing a terrible sight.

The townspeople, who had gathered around the gated hill that encased the village, screamed at the bound satyr that lay slumped on the stone floor. Faramir drew back, his hand reaching for a sword that was not there. Gamling and a Rohirrim knight blocked the monarchs, but Éomer pushed them aside.

He knelt close to the weary goat-thing, noting its spiraling horns and golden fur. The satyr met his inspection with dark, unblinking eyes. Éomer stood up.

"I saw your kind when the Narnian rulers came to visit me. A great day, it was. I regret that we will ultimately cross swords on the field of battle."

The satyr did not respond.

Éomer focused his attention elsewhere.

"What is your name, ranger?" he asked the red-headed man.

"I am Deremir, Third Captain of the Gray Company. I entered the Forodwaith with thirty men and returned with thirteen. My men and I are ready to fight for you at a moment's notice, my liege."

Éomer clasped Deremir's shoulder firmly, as did Faramir.

"You are a brave man, Deremir," Faramir said approvingly. "The Ithilien Rangers would be proud to recognize you as brother."

The king of Rohan released the man, turning away to walk back into the throne hall.

"Hadla, find some lodging for these courageous men, and allow for the satyr to have a suitable room as well. We do not abuse our prisoners. Faramir, Gamling, prepare your men to transport the colonists to safety in the west. Sister, you may go with your husband if you please."

"What of you, Éomer?" Eowyn inquired, taking her lover's hand but still concerned for her older sibling. "What will you do?"

Éomer faced the horizon, a grim but determined expression on his weather-beaten face. He unclasped his fur cloak, revealing a mighty suit of viridian, leather armor. At his waist, Herugrim, his uncle's sword, hung at his hip, eager to taste the blood of her enemies once more. The cloak dropped to the stone floor with a thump.

"I will muster the Rohirrim. Soon, Rohan shall go to war."

**AN: Hope you guys liked it! I'm sorry there wasn't any big battle scenes that happened, but like I said, I wanted to go in depth. There's more to adventure stories than blood and gore. Anyways, I hope you guys read and review! I'll see you later after I update Endwar: Breaking Point! Looking forward to it! **


	8. Dark Horizon

**AN: Sorry for the long wait, guys. It's been a while, although its been longer for the ones who've been following Endwar: Breaking Point. My apologies, guys, I'll get back to that ASAP. I've been working on Dust and Ashes for the time being, another crossover fic. Well, here's the next chapter for The MiddleEarth Campaign! Hope you enjoy it!**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING. GOSH.**_

_Crack!_

The ancient tree shuddered once, its dying breath releasing with a deep groan. Old bark and wide branches splintered and fractured, and the first resident of Arnor to be cut down by Narnia fell to the ground with an ear-splitting boom. The tree-cutters scattered, avoiding the massive trunk as fast as they could. The dust settled, and soon the workers resumed their work. One by one, trees were falling. Satyrs, fauns, centaurs, and every other Narnian set out to follow their king's bidding. They filed out of the camp, bearing saws and axes of every kind. Giants lumbered through the forest, striking the ancient denizens of Arnor with hand or club. The sounds of dying trees echoed throughout the region, striking fear into the hearts of refugees who were just now straggling out of the country. Trouble was brewing in the heart of Arnor.

The poison of ambition had seeped its way into the heart of High King Peter Pevensie.

King Peter rested his foot against a mossy boulder, being careful not to stain his leather boots against the green substance. The soldiers/workers were working hard before him: Slicing logs into blocks, creating water aqueducts to replenish thirst, and spreading the camp. Even now fresh reinforcements were crossing the borderline, and more would be coming by the week. Soon, there would no inch of Arnor untouched by Narnian hands.

The noble king swept a hand through his golden hair, relishing in the fresh breeze that now coursed through the forest. He felt a presence walk up behind him.

"Can you smell it, Ed?" he asked his fellow king and brother. "Can you smell what the morning breeze brings us?"

"I smell sweat and mud, brother," Edmund replied. He was dressed in a royal tunic emblazoned with the family crest. His black hair was neatly combed back inside a cap. "What is it that _your_ nose tells you?"

"Prospect…" Peter sighed, opening his eyes. His blue pupils were alight with expectation. He smoothed some wrinkles on his crimson vest absently, his mind elsewhere. "I sense prospect, Edmund."

"Oh?" Edmund said, crossing his arms and giving his brother a concerned look. "What manner of prospect do you entail?"

Peter furrowed his brow and looked back at his brother sternly. "The kind that would greatly assist our dying nation. Enough of this. Go back to work. I want you and Oreius to go on a scouting party."

Edmund arched an eyebrow. He gave an elegant bow.

"As you wish, o great one."

Before Peter could make a scathing comeback, he turned his back and left. Peter stared after him for a while before shaking his head and once more surveying his army. The sounds of splintering wood, trickling water, and the ever-constant chatter of the workers filled his eardrums.

He smiled.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Legolas knelt down and brushed his fingers across the worn dirt. His fingertip carefully ran over the grooves and hills of the footprint, simple touches telling him all he needed to know. He was, after all, a wood elf, and he was friends with one of the best trackers he had ever known. Another elf, this one with long black hair flowing to the small of his back and wearing forest-green leather armor approached him.

"What is it, brother?" he said in a lyrical voice, pure and soft. "Who laid these tracks?"

Legolas bent closer to the ground and sniffed to verify their quarry.

"Orcs," he answered, disgust evident in his tone. "Fivescore, due west." He surveyed the dirt path again, eyes scanning meticulously. "They run with a band of Uruk-Hai."

"By the Valar," the other elf snarled, a hand creeping to the leafy blade hanging around on his hip. "They should be a day ahead of us."

"That is true, Merandil. Their objective is unknown, but I am certain it is one of ill intention. Come, gather the others."

Legolas moved to rise, but stopped, clutching his chest. Merandil laid a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.

"It is hurting more, no?"

Legolas' eyes were dimmed with pain, but he answered as best as he could. "Yes, friend. This will not stop me however."

They both rose. The party of elves was gathered around an abandoned trade route, just west of North Ithilien. Merandil and the other ninety wood elves had met Legolas outside the gates of Minas Tirith three days ago. The prince had departed with many tears, saying farewell to Susan and Aragorn.

He didn't want to leave, but he had to fight. For honor and redemption. If he had to die in battle, so be it. He would rather fall by the sword than live in eternity without his love. Merandil seemed to sense his friend's inner conflict and rubbed his back.

"We shall see this through, my prince," he said encouragingly. "I swear it."

Legolas gave a strained smile and faced his brethren. They were all dressed in the armor of Mirkwood, specks of green amidst the dull brown of the empty path. The warriors were all ready to fight and die protecting their prince.

Legolas hoped dearly that it wouldn't come to that.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Hurry! Put your backs into it!"

Merry grumbled under his breath, inserted the shovel in the ground again, and heaved. The sun was beating hard on his back, searing through his threadbare shirt as if it wasn't there at all. Pippin was gasping beside him, also digging a trench. Other prisoners that were fit to work were toiling all around them, at the edge of the camp. Aranur, the pampered ranger, moaned and worked half-heartedly behind the two hobbits.

Their supervisor was a brawny centaur by the name of Dedelus. He was bare from the waist up, unashamedly showing his muscular frame. His lower half was a dark chestnut color, ending in black hooves. His long hair was tied back in a loose tail.

"Aranur!" the warden snapped. "Cease your groveling and DIG FASTER, I SAY!"

The ranger whimpered and began to dig quickly, throwing up dirt in a rushed and haphazard fashion. The centaur spat out a curse.

"What did I say earlier? Orderly lines! I want them perfectly straight in time for the pike setting."

Merry cocked an eyebrow and gave a sidelong glance at his friend. Pippin smiled back, eyes alight under a sheen of glistening sweat pouring from his forehead. Suddenly, a large shadow shortly blocked the two hobbits from the heat of the sun. The duo gulped and looked behind them.

Dedelus leaned down, massive arms folded over his chest. He dwarfed the two hobbits easily, being larger than a man is.

"What do you find so funny, Halflings?" he inquired, his musty breath blasting against the hobbits' face.

"N-nothing, master Dedelus," Pippin stammered. "An old joke, is all!"

"Uh-huh," the supervisor said, smirking. "I'm sure it is."

He left, his hooves digging more grooves into the line Merry and Pippin had just created. Merry cursed inwardly and resisted the urge to throw his shovel in between the centaur's leg and watch the giant lug fall with a neigh. That would have been a _real_ laugh…

"Water," Pippin croaked a while after the Dedelus was out of sight. "Where can we get some damned water in this place?"

"Might as well wish for rescue, Pip," his friend answered. "We only get water after work time, and that won't be done until a quarter before noon. After the water break, it's chow time, then we do tree partitioning, then after that is tent cleaning, then after that is-"

"I get it," Pippin interrupted dully. "I just want a teensy sip!"

"So do I, friend, so do I," Merry replied, eyes misty. The sound of trickling water soon reached their ears, followed by the hearty laughter of a group of fauns. They grimaced. "Do they _really_ have to put the aqueduct so near the prison grounds?"

"Psychological tampering and all that, Merry," Pippin chirped, almost heartily. Or maybe it was sarcasm. "They want to keep us dry and thirsty so we can look forward to falling on our knees and beg."

"Yeah. That'll be the day. I'll never…Damn all, Pip, three Telmarines coming up fast."

Sure enough, a trio of silver-armored Telmarines came swaggering over the grassy hill, their long black hair swaying in the breeze, free from the restraint of helmets. They were chatting in their native tongue; all three were clutching bottles that held a substance too dark to be water.

"Drunk, also," Pippin remarked harshly. "Just our luck."

They three stopped and started to survey the toiling prisoners, jeering at them and making rude gestures that made the two hobbits flinch. Back in the Shire, they were sure someone would be lynched for making anything similar to those. Their eyes rested upon Merry and Pippin, and their eyes glittered with a mixture of malice and amusement.

"What do we have here, comrades?" a lanky Telmarine stated, stumbling down the incline. "Two _midjatos _with shovels? Must be a circus, no?"

His friends chuckled menacingly, joining their comrade at the edge of the prison grounds (_Midjatos_ meant "midgets" in Telmar). Their shining armor did nothing to make them look any less like drunken fools. A few of the other prisoners looked at the two hobbits sympathetically, while the rest stayed quiet.

"Aren't you supposed to stay away from us?" Merry called without turning his back. He couldn't count how many times they had ignored the king's rule and came over to taunt them. "After all, that's what King Peter said."

"Stupid _midjato_," one Telmarine spat. "The king has no power over us. We follow General Scipio and him alone."

Merry digested this for a moment. He faced Pippin and winked once. His friend realized his plan and grinned. Merry turned around to face the waiting mercenaries.

"Oh?" he said, feigning interest. "Why might that be? You signed a treaty with the High King saying that you must follow his orders."

The Telmarines scoffed and spat at the ground, never noticing the large shadow bearing down at them.

"King Peter the _Magnificent_ is nothing but a silly boy. The very fact that he rules over a nation of mangy animals and monsters means that. Its time for Narnia to come under better management."

"What would that be, soldiers?" a deep voice asked from behind them.

The three Telmarines' smiles instantly dropped from their faces. One of them visibly gulped. They simultaneously turned around. Dedelus the centaur was looming over them, his face a mask of severity and disgust. He huffed once, the sound coming from the horse side of him.

"Please," he said, "enlighten me."

The Telmarines scrambled out of the way, stumbling over the hill and through the camp, bumping into workers as they hurried to return to the safety of their tent. Dedelus watched them go, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Merry and Pippin giggled quietly.

Dedelus faced them, all amusement gone from his craggy features.

"Do not take this as a moment of respite, prisoners," he said sternly. "Resume your work."

They hinted a note of respect in the warden's tone this time. Merry and Pippin nodded and turned back to digging.

At least they had a common enemy.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Almost all the provinces have given their assent, my king. Soon, all of Rohan shall be mustered for war."

"That is fortunate," Éomer replied. He sighed. "However, I fear that even that will not be enough."

The king was inside a large tent, its entrance flap partly open. Several maps were arrayed before him atop a table, ancient and worn with use. His lieutenants were gathered around him, almost all of them old, seasoned veterans from the War of the Ring. They were clad in their ornate Rohirrim armor: Green-white breastplates overlaid with a sheet of mail, steel greaves and leather riding boots, and a wooden shield strapped to their backs. Their swords hung at their hips. Although older than most, they were every inch a warrior. Most had slain more orcs than any in Rohan, which was something to boast about.

Gamling wrung his hands carefully. "My king, already ten thousand have gathered under your banner. Why do you say that this will not be enough?"

The sounds of conversation and the neighing of horses from outside dominated the tent for a moment as they awaited the younger king's answer. The army was getting ready to mobilize, and soon, Rohan would ride into Eregion and confront the Narnians.

"Ten thousand is not enough," Éomer answered finally. "Nay, not even twenty thousand is enough. Peter comes with over eleven hundred thousand troops at his disposal, and more are crossing through the border as we speak. My sources tell me they have fully occupied Arnor as we speak, a feat gained merely by the size of their army." He met the gaze of each of his lieutenants. "Sheer numbers will not win the day for us, I'm afraid."

There was a grim silence.

"My king," another one responded. He was Volstarg, a captain of the Riddermark. His hair was pure white with age, but he carried a strength and vigor greater than any younger man. Few could ride a horse greater than he, and throw a halberd as far. "What of Gondor?"

Éomer exhaled through his nose and slowly fingered the White City on a map. "Aragorn is reluctant to come to our aid. He fears that we will be driven back in the end, so he intends to keep all of his soldiers in to withstand the Narnians' inevitable assault."

"He thinks that we are doomed to fail before the battle is joined," a lord from Dunharrow sneered. "How great is our friend in the east. Maybe we should join the Narnians in their quest-"

He stopped, barred from speech by the twenty-seven inches of steel resting against his throat. Éomer's face held no expression as he bore Herugrim unwaveringly. The council was dead silent.

"Rohan," Éomer replied. "sides with Gondor. As it always has. I do not care what the cause of this invasion is, or what argument Aragorn and Peter have developed. Narnia has decided to invade our land and drive thousands of innocents out of their homes. Narnia dares to cross our land to wage war upon Gondor. I will not let Rohan fall. I will _never_ let Rohan fall. The land of the Horse-Lords shall never again be privy to an outsider's whim. If Peter wants to attack, then let him. We will stand by Gondor, and that is that."

The Rohirrim lord nodded shakily, eyes locked onto the gleaming sword in Éomer's hand. The king dropped Herugrim. The lord relaxed. Éomer sheathed his sword but retained his stern look.

"Any more objections to my decision?" he growled with such authority that the lieutenants visibly paled. "Speak now!"

Silence.

"Good," he stated. "We have planning to do."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir nocked the arrow, sighted, and released. The missile raced through the air, stopping with a dull thud on the red bull's eye painted on the tree. There was a round of congratulatory murmurs and applause.

"Now," the ranger captain began. He faced the row of young men, all volunteers from the Rohan provinces. They wore cheap leather tunics and trousers sewn by their mothers, yet they all had the same zeal that allowed them to work and push themselves harder. He liked that. The trainees were standing at the edge of the vast Rohirrim camp, facing a grove of oak trees. "I do not expect you to follow with the same skill. All I want is the same concentration, the same posture, and the same release. More or less. Who shall go first?"

Several hands were raised.

"You," he said, pointing to a scrawny boy with a shock of golden hair.

The boy stepped forward, holding the short bow tensely. He came up beside Deremir, eyes fixed onto the bull's eye. Some of the other boys cheered him on as he prepared to shoot. The boy inhaled, nocked the arrow, sighted, and released.

The arrow flew with a slight waver, landing below the bull's eye but still inside the target. The boy's face fell, but Deremir clapped his hands.

"Well done," he said, to the surprise of the others. "You have a good aim, but work on your posture. Don't lean too far in. Straighten and relax."

The boy blushed, mumbled in thanks, and walked back to the others.

They were there for an hour. Most of the boys had gotten inside the target, with a few near misses by the ones who looked as if they should still be sucking on their mother's tit. Deremir was largely impressed. He figured good marksmanship ran in Rohirrim blood.

"You had a good day, teacher?" a familiar voice called.

"Great, actually," Deremir replied, grunting as he pulled a firmly lodged arrow out of the tree. "You, Elbarad?"

"Quite boring, actually," the elderly lieutenant responded. He came up beside his captain and began to help him with the task. "Teaching a bunch of toddlers how to ride a horse isn't as easy as you think. I would've much preferred arrows than the job I was stuck with."

They finished and placed the arrows in a pail at the base of the tree. Elbarad followed Deremir as he walked into camp to place the projectiles into the artillery tent.

"A good day, isn't it?" the lieutenant sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in the fresh morning air. "It's almost as if there wasn't a war on the horizon."

"I understand that, brother," the captain replied, placing the pail inside a medium-sized tent guarded by a pair of Rohirrim knights. "There is a war nevertheless. We shall fight in it."

"Of course, captain." Elbarad grunted. "I will follow you to the end. I fear for the others. We lost fourteen at Fort Aran, most of them good friends and warriors. They will be reluctant to fight again."

"Nonsense, Elbarad," his friend scoffed, walking briskly through the aisle of tents. "We are Dúnedain. We will never shrink from a fight."

"Our order is not what it once used to be. Many of the ones who remember our purpose are now dead. Many of the surviving ones were barely out of adolescence. The other companies are many leagues from here, and the battle is not but a few days away." He gave his friend a wary look. "We must be cautious in the days to come, Deremir."

The captain walked in silence, and finally nodded gravely. "You are right, Elbarad. We will be hard-pressed, and our remaining thirteen will find themselves in the middle of it all."

They stopped beneath an overhanging willow, in the center of the bustling Rohirrim camp. A few of the knights and soldiers gave the pair respectful nods and went on their way. The reputation of the Dúnedain spread far and wide, and even in the most remote of countrymen heard tales of the legendary guardians. Having a group in their camp of war uplifted their spirits: that was the main reason why King Èomer had sent them there. Deremir looked above the top of the wide-spread tents, squinting into the horizon. A blazing sun shone high amongst a robin's egg sky, and few clouds were present. It was the perfect day, something that was oh so wrong in these times.

He knew that although things were clear, a dark horizon was on its way…

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**Near sunset…**

"There they are, my prince…"

Legolas peered through the underbrush. A group of orcs were huddled around a campfire, eating off a spit and snarling in their guttural tongue. They were dressed in soiled rags, some bearing likeness to Mordor armor, but know ragged with age. They were almost indistinguishable in the shadows to a man's vision, but elves were gifted with superior sight. Legolas could see every detail of the orcs: from their black, grimy pores to their filthy, oily hair. Some were merely bald. The party of elves almost drew back in revulsion as the scent grew ever stronger.

Standing beside a tree, overseeing the smaller orcs, were six tall, broad chested Uruk-Hai. They two had pitch-black skin, reddened with what looked like a vile mixture of war paint and blood. Their yellow eyes were alight with an evil intelligence: Saruman had devised the perfect killing machine. They bore crude swords tipped with a miniscule hook.

Merandil crept closer to Legolas, his feet never once making a sound on the twig-ridden forest floor. "On your orders, my prince…"

Legolas nodded slowly, quietly grabbing his bow and withdrawing a fletched arrow from his quiver. "On my release," he whispered. "We all fire a volley." He saw his target, a muscular Uruk, and nocked his arrow. He released.

"Urrgh!"

The arrow slammed into the monster's bare chest, eliciting the pained grunt. It fell to the ground, twitching uncontrollably and trying to clutch the wooden shaft protruding from its black sternum. The other elves opened fire at once, taking down four more Uruk-Hai and all the orcs with one or two shots. The whole ordeal had taken no less than ten seconds, and the screams of the fleeing orcs could be heard clearly as the wood elves dispatched of them. The remaining Uruk, upon seeing the first one die, had fled into the forest as soon as the hail of arrows came.

"Merandil, remain here!" Legolas ordered, clutching his bow and racing after the beast. "I will deal with him."

Before he could protest, the elf was already in pursuit.

The Prince of Mirkwood, experiencing love for the first time, seemed to have forgotten his former habits. The sharp alertness had been dulled, and his wary instincts were all but diminished. Now, he was more of an emotionally-driven being than a reasoning one. That was the reason why he had not seen the Uruk-Hai double back slyly and await him behind a tree. That was why he had not sensed it come up behind him and slash.

However, he was an elf all the same, and Legolas felt the swoosh of air as the monster struck.

He ducked with the flexibility of a jungle cat, bending down as fast the Uruk could swing. He felt the cold blade slash the air above his head, missing only by a few millimeters. The monstrous amalgam of Goblin-man and orc kicked his behind, sending him falling to the ground with a surprised grunt.

"Foolish elf," the beast mocked, its voice guttural and deep. "Your senses have dulled."

He slashed again, this time feeling the tip of the sword cut into Legolas' shoulder. The elf winced in pain, but reacted immediately. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and stuck it into the Uruk's inner thigh.

It roared in agony, its black blood spraying out from the wound like a geyser. It cursed in Black Speech and swung once more. Legolas easily dodged the strike and punched the monster on the cheek, felling it. The Uruk dropped, defeated.

"Now, monster," he said calmly, kicking its sword away and approaching it where it lay. "Why do you travel west?"

The Uruk laughed harshly, its bright eyes staring at Legolas with unconcealed hatred and amusement.

"W-Why," he gasped, feeling more blood seep from his major artery. "Should I tell a fading elf of my plans?" He chuckled weakly. "Shall you carry the news to your early deathbed?"

A vein popped in the elf's pale forehead, and he unsheathed his twin knives from his scabbard. The monster fixed him with a glare.

"Angry, wood elf? Are you mad that I know of your condition? My kind can sense things like that in our prey. You are dying, yet you fight me while the chance to sail to the Undying Lands remains."

Legolas pointed the tip of one of his knives at the bridge of the Uruk's nose. "You are knowledgeable for an accursed beast. I shall say this again: What is your purpose west?"

The fallen Uruk let his head fall back, hearty laughter issuing from his throat. Legolas drew back the knives in sudden anger, but felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see Merandil and the other elves appear into the clearing, eyes fixed onto the situation. Death was coming, and they could sense it.

"Fools!" the wounded monster cried out. "You are all fools! The day of reckoning is almost upon you, and yet you continue to squabble with the foreigners. Mark this, elves, retribution will come sooner than you think…"

The Uruk suddenly fell back. An arrow jutted from his dark forehead. Legolas turned to see one of the elves drop his bow, a look of disgust and pity on his fair countenance. He nodded to his prince.

The forest seemed just a little colder to the party of elves.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_**The Shire**_

The breeze rolled over the hills, bearing the sound of cheerful laughter, the smell of freshly-baked pastries and roasted meat, and the ever-present chatter of peaceful townspeople. It was the seventieth day of spring, a fact altogether comforting to the residents of Hobbiton. The miniscule townspeople were clustered around the town square trading goods, playing around, conversing with family or friends. The news of the invasion had not penetrated into the land yet, and the hobbits of the Shire were living as they had been for the past decade: in ignorant bliss.

Samwise Gamgee dipped his quill into the ink canister, shook it a little, and continued his writing:

_**The anniversary of Master Frodo's departure is coming soon, and the annual gathering of the fellowship is only days away. However, sad news has reached me a week ago, the last time this quill touched these pages. Merry and Pippin have disappeared from their old haunts in Buckland, and are nowhere to be found. Legolas is stricken with some bad illness and Strider has to manage Gondor. Only Gimli can make it here, a fact that is not discouraging. I shall enjoy the robust dwarf's joyful company. He loves spending time with the children, although I do have to stop him from bringing them to the local tavern some nights. Sometimes he goes a little too**_

"Father!" a young girl's voice called out. "Father!"

Sam turned in his chair, seeing Elanor standing at the door of his study with a frightened expression on her beautiful face. Golden curls ran down her plump face, a face with such elegance that many had often mistaken her for an Elf Maid than a hobbit. Sam was instantly disturbed by the expression on her face.

He got up from his chair, leaving his entry abandoned. He enveloped her in his arms, his red hair melding with her blonde as he kissed her cheek.

"What's going on, Elanor?" he asked tenderly. "What's frightened you so badly?"

"Father, you have to come quick! Come to the gates!"

"Where are the others? Where is your mother?"

She ignored him, instead sprinting out the room. He stifled a curse of frustration and followed her through the winding hallways and out of their hole. Literally hundreds of hobbits were streaming through the dirt paths, all worried and shouting. A great clamor could be heard from everywhere, and the town was clogged. It was as if everyone from Eastfarthing to Westfarthing had come to see the commotion. He sighed and melded into the flow of hobbits, struggling to find his daughter.

"Excuse me!" he called out anxiously. "Samwise Gamgee coming through! Your mayor needs to make it to the gate as soon as possible! Please, move aside!"

He hated having to order his townspeople around, but he needed to find his family. A way was cleared, and he sprinted down the street, finally making it to the entrance of Hobbiton. He rushed to his family, Elanor already having reached them. He hugged his thirteen children fiercely and kissed his wife, whose face was wracked with worry.

After quelling the anxious crowd, he turned around to face the cause of the whole fiasco.

A strange procession had apparently made its way into the Shire, which told Sam how the news had spread so fast. The arrival of these visitors must've sparked some sort of messenger dispatch throughout the region. As to whom these visitors were, however, it was all a mystery to the mayor of the Shire.

Standing at the farthest edges of the stylish parade were peculiar beings: Bearded men with crimson armor, their lower halves ending in what seemed to be goat legs and hooves. Some bore golden trumpets; the brass instruments blaring out a foreign tune, majestic and regal. Beside them were golden-furred beasts, also goats but bearing the stature of man. Thick horns spiraled out of domed helmets, and they also had the same red armor. In the middle of the procession were large creatures, also a mixture of man and beast but this time with a horse. Again, the red armor shone brilliantly in the sunlight. They held tall flags, the insignia of a powerful lion emblazoned against a sea of red.

In the front of the procession were two men, out of place among the menagerie of exotic and frightening beasts. One of them, shorter than the other, had black hair flowing from a golden crown. He was dressed in, again, crimson battle armor, although the breastplate was also imprinted with the ferocious white lion. Silver chain mail was worn under the strong-looking armor. Beside him was a taller man atop a horse, pure as snow, with a spiraling horn jutting out from its forehead. The man's yellow hair also cascaded under a jeweled crown, inlaid with precious gems and metals. He had a sky-blue tunic and black trousers. The apparel should've made him look plain, but all it did was exemplify his countenance. The two men bore a distinct aura, permeated with power and command. It was an aura that Aragorn had always possessed even before his kingly days. They had the same jawline, proud and hard. _Brothers, maybe_, Sam mused in the middle of his shock.

"Residents of…" The blonde man stopped, leaning down his horse to listen to a short satyr. "the Shire. My name is High King Peter the Magnificent. The man beside me is King Edmund, who also rules with me."

As he spoke, drawling in an imperious voice and a strange accent, Sam's eyes drifted to the center of the fancy parade. He froze. Four bloodied figures knelt on the ground, closely guarded by a score of horse-men. Their gray cloaks were tattered and dirty, and fresh bruises were apparent on their proud faces. As the foreign man spoke, one of the men met the eyes of the Sam. Sadness and pity welled in his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

_Gray cloaks…_

Narnia had come to the Shire.

**AN: Hope this suffices as a cliff-hanger. Also, if anyone of you is displeased with the lack of Elvish here, I'm sorry. If anyone knows a RELIABLE English-Elvish translator, please tell me. Or you can PM me some links or common phrases. Anyways, please R&R! 'Till then! ** __


	9. Storm Front

**AN: Wow. I haven't uploaded in ages. I'm surprised I managed to write this up so fast. Anyways, I have made my triumphant return to , which, I might add, might be pathetically short-lived. Finals are coming up, and I actually want to study this time ;). This chapter deals with some stuff I want to clear up and add in. Might be boring, but all the fun-and-gore comes next chapter, I promise. Bear with me, and please enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**No. I do not own anything except what is my own. Naturally.**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**The Shire**

The intruder's occupation had been swift. The dreary inhabitants of the realm really had no choice to object; mostly from their fear of being rounded up and slaughtered like common cattle. The exotic beasts were kind enough; they never pushed too hard or were too rough with the hobbits. However, their gentleness didn't dissuade the fact that they resembled nightmarish monsters from dark stories to the Halflings. The mayor, Samwise Gamgee, stood anxiously at the porch of the Town Hole. The estate had been built into the sides of the White Downs, the main office of Michel Delving. A group of his friends and advisors waited nervously beside him. One of his friends, an overweight hobbit by the name of Roldo Rabben, sidled up to him, his massive girth hanging over his hips.

"Mayor," he whispered quietly, sweat pouring from his forehead. "I don't think callin' the outsiders to the honorable hall is going to fix anything. If you means to kick 'em out of the Shire, sir, they've already filled up Woody End and Stockbrook. Maybe you should-"

"I know what I'm doing, Roldo," Sam retorted. He patted his red curls gingerly, following with a self-conscious adjusting of his dress collars. He was soon to be in the presence of kings, and he had ample experience with that. Looking untidy was the last thing you wanted to do. "Our initial fear has already cost us dearly. We have foreigners in our land because we didn't object to their requests. We need to be straightforward, but hospitable all the same. Asking them to leave will just rekindle their anger."

Roldo was about to say something when a horse's neigh interrupted the conversation. The fat hobbit paled and gulped.

The kings were coming. A procession of lightly-armed centaurs filed behind them like a stream of crimson blood. The group stopped a dozen yards from the hobbits. The High King was resplendent in sky-blue, a color matching with his eyes and golden hair. His brother, the one named Edmund, was dressed in war-dress. He looked intimidating and fierce in the steel breastplate, greaves, and gloves. A polished shield bearing the Lion was strapped to his broad back, crossed with two swords. The centaur guards stopped, surrounding their monarchs in a light defensive perimeter. The noble kings surveyed the Halflings with curiosity and, what Sam thought, recognition. _So they've seen us before_, the mayor mused in his head.

"Honorable mayor," High King Peter the Magnificent began. The man appraised the officials with respect. "What business do you wish to bring with us?"

Sam cleared his throat. "I want to know why you're here and what you will be doing."

A smattering of laughter hit the hobbit like a physical blow. The king hushed his brother and the centaurs with a wave of his hand. Peter tilted his head, his startlingly blue eyes boring into Sam like a woodpecker's beak.

"Such courage from one so small," he remarked. "It seems it is common in all of your people."

"So you've seen one of ours before?" Sam inquired.

The foreign king waved his hand dismissively. "A matter for another time. Right now, I believe you want to know why we're here correct?"

Sam nodded. The king got off his steed, a snow-white horse with a spiraling horn jutting from its forehead. He walked towards the Halflings, eliciting frightened squeals from most of the party. The Narnians chortled some more, this time without any objection on the High King's part. Sam stood firm, not wanting to show fear in front of the invaders. Peter understood this, and winked in respect.

"Inside, then?" he asked.

"Your soldiers?" Samwise Gamgee motioned with his chin at the smiling guards and the other king.

"They shall remain outside. This will be between you and me."

The notion was clear. Sam ordered his advisors to wait outside, much to their disappointment. He went inside Town Hall, closely followed by the king. The man had to stoop low in order to cross the building's hobbit-sized threshold. Sam waited for him to get inside, and then shut the door. He led him across a lengthy hall filled with portraits of the previous mayors, each one getting progressively chubbier. Years of peace and prosperity had softened the inhabitants of the Shire, and since the Downs Gate was shut, the worst thing that could happen in quiet Michel Delving was getting pranked. They entered a dining foyer, and Peter took a seat in a cushioned sofa next to an unlit fireplace. He looked squished and uncomfortable, but didn't voice it. Sam sat beside him, reaching for a set of cups and a pot.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Yes, please," the king said. Sam handed him a cup and poured him half. Steam rose from the drinks as both took a sip. Peter smacked his lips noisily, and Sam winced.

"This is quite a lifestyle you people have here," the blonde man commented.

"This far west, you're bound to have." Sam answered. "The eastern kingdoms usually ignore the Shire, so we don't get much action. Well, _usually_."

Peter arched an eyebrow, but the mayor shook his head.

"A matter for another time."

Peter laughed. It was light and melodious, not like the deep booming of the dwarves, but not as lyrical as elves. It was human. Man. _And we all know what fools Men are_, Sam thought.

"You are an interesting individual, Samwise Gamgee," he remarked. "I don't find it hard to believe you are mayor here."

"Yes, yes, thank you," Sam sighed. "Let's cut to the chase. Why have you entered my land and what do you wish to do?"

Peter set his cup down and cleared his throat. He wiped his hands on his robin's-egg blue trousers, all business.

"I do not know if you are aware, but I have declared war on the kingdom of Gondor and all who wish to support it. I have occupied all of Arnor now, and my troops are flowing in from the north as we speak. We are short of land, and we wish to use the…Shire…as an additional camping ground."

Peter waited patiently as the hobbit processed this.

Sam's mind was still reeling from the information. War? How had he not heard of this? On Gondor, of all places. That meant Aragorn and Arwen were in trouble. If what the High King Peter had said was true, and all of Arnor had indeed been occupied, that meant the East was in danger. Sam swallowed nervously.

"Ah…I see," he answered a few moments later. "This is quite an endeavor. May I ask why you have declared war?"

Peter looked at him.

Sam averted his eyes. "I guess not." There wasn't much he could do here anymore. Not with the kind of determination that flamed behind the king's eyes. "Thank you for your time, High King Peter the Magnificent. I wish you the best in your…campaign through Middle-Earth."

_Not really. I hope Aragorn trounces you into the dirt and sends you and your army back from whence you came._

"You are most welcome, mayor. Thank you for the tea. Farewell." Peter shook hands with Sam, stood, and left.

Minutes later, Sam observed out his window as the kings rode away down the path back to their camps. He saw his advisors rush into the house, relieved to be away from the presence of the intruders. The mayor stroked his chin, deep in thought. He remembered the wounded rangers he had seen at the arrival of the Narnians. They were stoic defenders of the realm, far more than any man. They were being treated by the healers as of now, but their injuries were quite severe.

Somewhere up north, the sound of thunder rolled through the hills, heralding trouble.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Peter unsealed the parchment and perused its contents, his eyes scrunched in concentration. Edmund paused in sharpening his sword, dropping the rock that he was using. They were in the Royal Tent, having ridden back from the Shire back into the heart of Arnor for a day's ride. Mesinthus waited patiently in the back, his shadow lengthened by the fire at the hearth.

"So," Edmund exclaimed. "What does it say?"

Peter read the letter aloud:

_**To the Royal Kings of Narnia,**_

_** We will be waiting in Isengard at midday tomorrow. This will be a diplomatic affair, so refrain from bringing any armed soldiers. We shall do the same.**_

_**Rohirrim War Council, Headed by King Èomer of Rohan**_

"They wish to converse with us," he said, handing the letter over to his brother. He read it over, spat on the ground, and gave it to Mesinthus. The satyr captain skimmed it and nodded.

"Sounds reasonable, my king," he voiced sincerely. "Why disregard it?"

"I am tired of diplomacy and meetings," Peter said sharply. "I do not believe they understand the meaning of total war is."

Mesinthus lifted a bushy eyebrow. "Total war? We won't be burning every township in our path, now will we?"

Peter made an annoyed sound in his throat and slumped in a sofa. Mesinthus looked to Edmund, who merely shrugged and continued to sharpen his sword. The satyr rolled his eyes and approached his king.

"My liege, our objective is to get Susan, not to obliterate Middle-Earth. I say we agree to this diplomatic meeting. Edmund?"

The younger monarch shrugged.

Peter looked up, his eyes slightly red. "We go. But do not think I'll agree to their pointless compromise."

He stood and entered his chambers silently. Mesinthus gave an exasperated glance at Edmund. _Would you quit sharpening that infernal sword and understand what's happening with your brother?_ he cried inside his head.

"My lord, what have you to say?" he said instead.

Edmund grunted. "I think Peter's anger is an issue of pride. He has a whole nation under his belt, and the next thing you know, his sister and fellow ruler was snatched by a foreigner before he could do anything. By the Lion, you and I were there when the whole thing happened, but Peter is far more furious than we are. Personally, I think we should've kept out cool and waited things out before we declared war. I mean, things are going great campaign-wise: We have most of the western half of Middle-Earth under our control with only a few hundred casualties, and victory seems very close. I just think that Peter needs to calm down. He's acting irrationally."

Mesinthus hadn't heard something so insightful from Edmund in years.

"My thoughts exactly."

Edmund rose to leave, but hesitated. He gave Mesinthus a worried look.

"Mesinthus, dear friend, I have a very bad feeling something horrible is about to happen. Something that we can't control. I fear for my brother and our men. I fear for our dying nation. I fear for even the inhabitants of Middle-Earth."

He rushed to the exit, his face pale.

"This was will be unlike anything we have ever faced before," he whispered. Edmund looked at his satyr friend, a look that chilled Mesinthus to the bone. "The weird thing is, I don't believe I'll be alive long enough to see it end."

He left.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The wind was slow, and the sun beat down fiercely on the assorted warrior's backs as they waited near the ruins of Orthanc. The massive black tower was still upright, but its once-alluring sheen was dulled with the years of abuse and neglect. The circular field was still marshy and tangled, but the way it looked was irrelevant to the purpose of the meeting.

Elbarad urged his steed closer to his captain. He leaned over.

"There they are, sir," he whispered. "Over the hill."

The procession was grand, but it was the usual. The High King of Narnia had a flair for the theatrics and grandeur. The centaurs, bare-backed and huge, glared at the rows of Rohirrim horse-men gathered under the shadow of the old tower. They in turn, glared back.

Èomer detached himself from the crowd, followed closely by his war council. The High King Peter and Edmund also rode forward, flanked by the centaurs. The Rohirrim battle horses were in no means small, but the humanoid centaurs were by far the biggest. The King of Rohan nodded to Peter, who was in his usual blue attire. Edmund, who looked slightly self-conscious in a light crimson tunic and trousers, shook the veteran's hand strongly.

"See, captain," Elbarad remarked. "Things are going great. By the end of the day, Narnia will be going home and all will be well-"

"Hush, friend," Deremir whispered back. "The day is young."

The entourage of kings entered the tower. Soon, the two sides were left to stare at each other across the swampy fields. The Rohirrim knights glanced away at the bare-chested centaurs' steady gazes. They were heavily muscular; their bodies seemed natural in that state. There was no trace of excess body fat on their bodies, and the horse side of them increased their stature.

The rangers, however, looked back unflinchingly. They had lost too many to experience the luxury of fear. Deremir could hear the gears churning in his men's minds, deducing the quickest and most painful ways to kill a centaur. He smiled.

One of the centaurs, a large barrel-chested dark-skinned creature, saw this. His dark eyes flared, and he jutted his chin at the ranger captain.

"What do you find so funny, ranger?" he prodded in a deep voice.

"Nothing at all, honorable centaur…" he answered in a clear voice, resisting the urge to chuckle. _Centaurs are so easily angered_, he thought.

"No," the creature replied, folding his sculpted arms across his chest. "Tell me. What are you and the silly horse-men jittering about there?"

_Paranoid, too_.

"Silly horse-men?" Torin exclaimed. "Are you really in a position to claim such an accusation?"

The Rohirrim guffawed at this, and many of the rangers joined in. Even Deremir had to bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing. What they did was a grave mistake, however, and he would have to talk to Torin about this later on. Sowing bitterness inside their enemies would not work towards their benefit.

The centaur bristled with rage, as did his brothers. The Narnian clenched his fists and trotted forward.

"Orieus!" barked a familiar voice. "Stay yourself. We are finished here."

The centaur paused and turned to see Peter and his brother exit the tower through the black gate. His cheeks reddened, and he returned to the ranks. Èomer and his council exited shortly after. By the looks of it, they were in a sour mood. Edmund looked slightly apologetic as he mounted his steed, but the Rohirrim's backs were turned. Peter was rimrod stiff, but he was polite enough to restrain his anger. He mounted his horse, the white unicorn, and galloped away.

Orieus and the others followed soon after, but not before he gave a hateful glare at the rangers that meant: This is not done.

Deremir didn't blink.

He approached the king and the council, who were locked in fierce conversation.

"King Èomer," he called.

The man turned in his saddle. His tanned face was red with fury, stark against his yellow hair. His wrath and his metal helmet drove a sheen of sweat down his face.

"How did it go?" the ranger asked.

"He is more of a fool than I realized," Èomer gritted through his teeth. "Negotiations are trash to him. He demands his sister at once, against her will. By the Valar, can he not be patient!"

Deremir processed this somberly. The diplomacies had been useless, it seemed.

"What I feared is now near us," the king of Rohan sighed in defeat. "He means to cross the River Isen with an advance force to establish a front. We cannot let that happen. He marches in two days, bringing his elite to battle. We will meet him at the Fords, and Peter will discover what it means to cross the Eorlingas. Come, let us go. We have a battle to prepare."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The drums of war beat through the west like thunder. The night skies were lit red with the fires of forgery and machinations. Narnia's war machine was a relentless engine; nothing could halt its advance, by day or night. The militias that revolted were crushed, entire acres demolished, and the Shire under constant fear of obliteration. The army was gathering its advance force, an army estimated to be two-hundred-thousand strong. The crimson-gold banners of Narnia fluttered in the breeze, innumerable across the forests and plains that were its current dominion. Refugees flowed into the east like never before, all haunted by the sounds of screeching metal and foreign cries. The wind heralded the scent of blood-lust and smoke, stilling the heart of many a peasant or lord. The Shire was being emptied of its resources, anything that could aid Great Narnia in its just cause. The hobbits were too frightened to deny, and the warriors took them as willing participants.

In two days, Narnia would clash with Rohan, their only buffer against the prize that was Gondor. In two days, the grassy hills would run with blood, and the rivers filled with bloated corpses. In two days, fate and death would reign supreme.

The High King of Narnia's heart was stone-cold with pride. He would not accept defeat. Defeat was as unquestionable as death. He would break through Middle-Earth, regain his sister, no, his _pride_, and return to Narnia a savior. The land would be healed, and all would be well. As he lay in his bed, Peter thought of swords clashing, and screams renting the air. He thought of what wealth he would bring to Narnia with the conquest of Arnor. He thought of Lucy, his younger sister left alone to rule a tortured land. He thought of victory.

With that, he slept a peaceful sleep.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The Great Lion was distressed.

His creation was dying, and his children bickering amongst themselves like fools. His heart told him death would feast on the souls that would fall on the Fords of Isen, in the heart of a land not his own. He knew many would die, but he could do nothing. He, the maker of thousands of worlds, could do _nothing_! Narnia was dear to him, dearer than anything that existed.

There, in the middle of a cosmic realm, alone in the vast depths of the starry universe, he made a decision. He closed his eyes and begged that Iluvatar would forgive him. He opened his feline mouth, and the Words Of the Highest rolled from his tongue in a mixture of self-loathing and desperation. Power emanated from the Words, power so great that only he could manage it, one of the strongest of the Highs. His radiance shone like a lighthouse in the darkness of the void.

"Supreme High, I, Aslan of the House Leonus Imperiati, bid you come forth...Come forth Maker of All, Highest of Highs, and The Greatest One. Come forth Overseer of the Gathering, Head of the Body. Come forth, for I am in need of your help. COME FORTH!"

In reply, the Supreme High crossed the quintillion miles that spanned his glorious halls to the spot of summoning, and appeared.

He came forth with a light so pure that it nearly blinded the Great Lion. He came forth with a sound so terrifying that no one, mortal or immortal, could bear its length. He came forth with a steady, powerful aura that it sent Aslan to his haunches. He mewled pitifully and bowed his great head and mane in subservience to the one who had surpassed all.

The Supreme High had come forth.

And he had much to say.

**AN: Yeah, filler chapter. Might not appeal to some of you, but I had an inspiration. Hopefully, I'll update soon, and you who reads my HP/Dresden files crossover, I'm sorry. I'm a bit stuck on that story, and I'll return to it as soon as I can. On the meantime, the big battle between Narnia and Rohan comes up next, and I won't disappoint. Please R&R! **


	10. Battle of the Fords of Isen

**AN: Hey, told you it'd be fast. I had encountered an oil spill of inspiration from out of nowhere, so I sat down and typed away. My family wasn't really happy that I spent literally hours in front of the computer, but I got 'er done. This is the big battle between Rohan and Narnia, so expect blood-and-guts. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I don't own anything. Except what is mine. Do lawyers even read this site?**_

_**DISCLAIMER PART TWO: BEWARE OF PURPLE PROSE.**_

The white horse on the field of green once again fluttered in the breeze as the Rohirrim gathered upon the river banks and propped their banners high. The warriors were assembled along the shore of the River Isen, all atop sturdy horses and bearing long lances that had served the people well across the centuries. The frontal defense was seven thousand strong, the best men Rohan could muster from its vast dominion. They were tall, fair-haired, of noble stature, and skilled in the art of horsemanship. They sat upon their saddles proudly, their golden helmet tails fluttering with the wind. They were the Eorlingas, the descendants of one of the greatest men Middle-Earth had ever seen.

None had ever been so afraid in his life.

The Fords of Isen was to be the battleground between Peter's advance force and the Rohirrim. The region was already interred with the bones of knights and orcs that had torn each other apart in the War of the Ring. Saruman was dead, the Uruk-Hai all but eliminated, and the Fords had experienced a relatively peaceful period through the years. However, the day would soon bring a time when the blood of the Rohirrim would soak into its soil once more. Before them was a wide grassy plain, dotted with numerous trees and foliage. Behind them were dozens of boulders, tinted with a mossy green. The river ran through most of the rocks. The main force was centered in the Fords, ready for battle.

King Èomer urged his horse across the front lines of his men. He ran his sword along each of the jutting spears, testing the strength of the wielders, as his uncle had done before him. Through each tap of a spear he could feel the soul of his men, and he knew their hearts were weak. Èomer understood this; the enemy's tactics were virtually unknown, and many had not even lain eyes on a Narnian in their entire lives. _Valar, give my men the courage to halt the enemy tide,_ he prayed fervently as he continued to ride, _let them remember the fierce blood of Eorl in their veins._ He rode more, taking care to test each member of the front lines. He finally stopped, satisfied. The beat of hooves drew his attention to the right. Gamling, looking old but seasoned in his worn Rohirrim leather, rode up to him with a stony expression on his face.

"My lord, the additional forces have been positioned, but I fear that we are stretched too thin to maintain a firm defense," he whispered to the king. "They will push us to the river before the sun sets."

"That will not happen," Éomer growled. "Peter means to attack me here and now; he will not care to spread his forces. If he does, I have handpicked the men who guard the north and south. They will not fall so easily…"

Gamling looked worried, but he nodded, conceding.

The first drums could be heard in the distance. It was a thunderous rhythm, promising swift and terrible retribution to the guardians of the river. Éomer could literally feel the terror oozing from the members of his army.

"Men of Rohan!" he called suddenly, pivoting his horse to face them. "Defenders of liberty and peace! Take heart; the age of men will not be so easily undone. Grip your spears and ready your horse! The halberd will strike into the flesh of our enemies, and the arrow shall pierce by the thousands. Death may feast today, but victory shall dine with us tonight."

The men cheered. The celebratory shouts thundered over the river valley, drowning out the ominous beat of the drums. Courage overwhelmed their hearts, for they knew their king would fight beside them. Gamling grinned at the nephew of Théoden, pride in his chest.

Suddenly, a shout arose from the ranks.

"They are coming!"

The very first spear tips peeked out from under the horizon, partially hidden from an incline rising up in the distance. Then, the first of the Narnian army appeared.

To those of a keen eye among the Rohirrim, he could see that the very first ranks consisted of stoic fauns, all dressed in the sturdy scarlet leather of Narnia. Their breastplates were polished to a brilliant sheen, causing the sunlight to glare distractingly off their armor. Their short helms covered most of their curly brown hair, but allowed their horn tips to peek out the top. They bore long spears, shorter than the Rohirrim's but just as deadly. Their cloven hooves looked sharpened to points; in combat they would prove devastating.

The fauns advanced, their footsteps commencing in a simultaneous rhythm. As they came, the satyrs appeared behind them. They were dressed in no particular uniform, but seemed to bear the clothing of their respective tribes. They looked savage and bestial, their matted fur and spiraling horns reminders of nightmarish beasts from the Void. The iron scimitars so common among the satyrs were now openly wielded and brandished, threatening their enemy of how sharp their weapon could be.

Then, looming in the horizon, were the giants.

The tallest of them, a brawny monster in bronze armor, stood taller than the tallest oak tree in the country. Most of them wielded wooden staves, crude but effective. They were not as large as the horrifying Mûmakil, but massive all the same. When they saw the assembled riders, they grinned nastily and stroked their weapons excitedly. Golden griffins, just as large as the giant eagles of Middle-Earth, circled in the sky above them, their harsh cries echoing in the air.

All in all, the enemy force numbered approximately five thousand.

Éomer could make as many inspiring speeches as he could, but the sight before them had felled even the most courageous of spirits. Suddenly, the prospect of victory seemed all too bleak.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The griffin landed in a flurry of yellow feathers and fur.

"My lord, they have arranged themselves before the river, all of them on horse. Their king stands at the forefront of the army, which my kindred have numbered to be a little over seven thousand. I estimate they plan a charge."

King Peter stroked his golden stubble thoughtfully. He was atop his unicorn, with Edmund beside him. The Royal Guard, all five hundred of them, was assorted in four phalanxes surrounding both kings. Their iron shields were locked in place, with the fauns and satyrs behind pointing their spears ahead. The High King was in a splendid mood, due to his morning bath and his numerical advantage over Éomer. Peter tapped his chin.

"They plan to charge, as is their custom. The Rohirrim are prone to implement their cavalry in heroic and dashing efforts. They rarely think in strategic terms. Am I right, Edmund?"

Edmund started, distracted from his careful observation of a floating butterfly. "Oh, um, yes, of course."

Peter rolled his eyes, scanning his army as they approached the Rohirrim position. He nodded to the griffin captain.

"Brilliant. Thank you, Rycro, that would be all. Good luck and good hunting."

The contortion of the intelligent beast's beak could've been taken as an excited grin, but it looked like he was sick. The griffin launched into the air, joining his brethren in the cloudy blue sky. Peter watched him go, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun.

"Victory is ours, Edmund, I can feel it."

"Oh, what? Er, yes, of course. Definitely."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The charge was imminent. The seasoned Rohirrim could feel it in their bones. Thoughts that ran through their ancestors' heads as they prepared for the fateful ride now swam through theirs. The charge was sacred in the Rohirrim; little boys grew up listening to tales of courageous plunges into the ranks of the enemy. The charge happened in nearly every battle involving Rohan, and usually ended in victory for the Rohirrim. The Rohirrim cavalry were not often used in the way many functioned: as tools to flank and disrupt the main enemy body. The Rohirrim would charge _first_, their spears and halberds in hand. The thunder of hooves and bellows of men would, most of the time, frighten the enemy into submission. It was a tactic that was gloriously honored and innumerably implemented.

King Éomer was not confident that the charge would go well.

"Gamling," he called, trying to keep the nervousness from showing in his voice. "Prepare the men. We ride soon."

"Aye, sir," the elderly man replied. He turned to the hundred ranks of the Rohirrim. "READY!"

The men roared in approval, but fear clung to them like a repulsive odor. The spears were lowered, and halberds withdrawn. Éomer drew his sword, the sword that had been set to rest with the bones of his uncle, but denied by Théoden himself. Herugrim glittered beautifully in the sun, crafted masterfully by the ancient smiths of old. The heart-shaped design in the center of the hilt was blood-red ruby, and the guard and pommel gold. He lifted it in the air and reared his horse, his form as glorious as the kings of yesteryear.

"FORTH EORLINGAS!"

He pointed his sword towards the enemy and rode forward.

He was alone in the field, man and horse joined in a frenzy of fright and courage, an adrenaline-fueled ride. Èomer's heart beat in his ears, and the vast foreign army before him was the only thing in his sights.

Then the rest of the army roared and charged.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The Rohirrim were like a tide of mottled green and brown accompanied by a symphony of roars, neighs, and hooves. They thundered over the plain, emerging from the river shore and fanning out into the grassy flatland. The spears borne by the front runners were gradually lowered, and the mobile archers drew back their bows and fired.

The projectiles shot across the plain and into the ranks of the enemy. Many found their mark; felling a faun through the eye or plunging into the sternum of a satyr. Dozens of the Narnians fell still holding their spears, but there were thousands more to take their place. They continued to march across the plain, pointing their spears at the oncoming horde. Despite their fear, the Narnians retaliated.

"ARCHERS!" an authoritative voice called from within the ranks. "FIRE A VOLLEY!"

Arrows erupted from the Narnians, rising and falling in a black hail. The arrows hit.

The near-vertical fall of the arrows proved fatal for many a rider. A knight screamed and fell, an arrow jutting from his neck and into his waist. The fallen were trampled by the hooves of the charging horses, and if any hadn't been dead, they were now.

The exchange was quick and brutal. Already a number nearing two hundred lay dead on both sides. It was too short, however, and the Rohirrim were close to contact. The Narnians gritted their teeth, halted their march, and stood firm. The front rank raised their pikes and knelt.

The riders came closer.

Closer.

Closer.

King Èomer gave an ear-splitting battle cry, and he and his horse leapt over the wall of spears and into the Narnian army.

The Rohirrim followed suit, and all hell broke loose.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

King Èomer reared his horse and swung his sword in a downward slash. The satyr, who had hit his horse across the ribs with a club, fell backwards, his head flying off in a spurt of blood. The enemy was on all sides, attempting to hedge the Rohirrim in with their numbers. The Narnian front rank had been obliterated by the charge, but the army was like a swampy mire: there seemed to be no way out.

"Gamling! Hathfast! To me!" he cried, kicking a faun in the face. The two lieutenants rode towards him, mowing down everything in their path. Gamling reached him first, slashing at his foes with swift, skillful strikes that killed every time. Hathfast had been slow; three satyrs jumped onto him, stabbing viciously with serrated daggers. His screams rent the air.

Èomer snarled, cutting down a faun that had charged him with a spear. Gamling leaned over to him.

"My king, they are as numerous as the sand on the shore," he gasped, his age finally catching up with him. "We cannot hold forever."

"Take heart, old friend," Èomer answered, equally out of breath. "We will not be crushed so early. We have only begun."

He gave an encouraging smile, and was given one in return, albeit wan. Gamling was about to say something else when a shadow fell over his body. He looked up; his gray eyebrows up in question.

The giant grinned evilly and brought down his club upon the hapless rider.

"NO!" the king of Rohan exclaimed, but it was too late.

The old lieutenant was crushed instantly, along with his horse. The sickening crunch echoed in Èomer's ears. The club rose, globules of blood dripping off of its wooden hide. What remained of the throne's faithful friend resembled a revolting pile of mush. Èomer's heart grew cold with despair and sorrow, but was quickly heated with rage.

He cried out in fury, and charged the giant. At first, the monstrous man was confused. Would someone so little dare attack it? He scoffed and lifted his club.

Èomer took his spear from his saddlebag, aimed, and threw.

The spear hurtled through the air, swiftly plunging into the brute's thick neck. The giant gurgled pathetically, clutching his throat wildly. He stumbled forward, narrowly missing Éomer and falling onto a squad of surprised fauns. The giant twitched, and then was still.

Éomer said a quick prayer over the corpse of Gamling and rode on through the chaos. The Rohirrim were being slowly overwhelmed, he noted gravely. The momentum from the initial charge had been lost, and the Narnians had taken advantage of that. Èomer felt a sharp pain on his back.

He whirled to see a faun stabbing at him with a spear. The king growled and hacked at his opponent. The faun fell back, his face split in two. The Rohirrim, despite the roughness, seemed to be winning. All the giants had been killed; the riders knew how to handle a large enemy. There were many more enemies to kill, but the huge sea of Narnians now dwindled to a few hundred. The battle was finally going to their favor.

"Drive them back!" he exclaimed, rearing his horse to stand out in the battlefield.

He was met with a roar of approval from his men, followed by the urging of horses. The Rohirrim once again gained momentum, swinging their swords wildly at retreating Narnians. The green overtook the red, with their king in the forefront. Èomer pivoted his steed, watching as it whinnied, lifted a hoof, and bashed a satyr's skull in.

The Rohirrim yelled in unison. The Narnians were retreating disorderly, their rank-and-file a mess. They weren't done, however, and they quickly reformed the lines a way back. The front line, what had formerly been the fifteenth, wearily dropped their spears.

"Hold!" a voice called from the Narnian army.

Èomer gave a fierce grin and hefted his sword. "Forth Eorlingas!" he shouted. The Rohirrim once more charged in a thunderous stampeded, trampling the dead and dying in their wake. They had lost hundreds in the first hour of the fight, a testament to the bloody quickness of battle, but they were still many thousands strong.

A horn blew from the west.

As the riders charged, sunlight glinted off of silver steel as something approached from the horizon. Over the incline, large and majestic, came the centaurs. They were dressed in ornate steel, with red-gold kilts covering their equine chest. Some had their hair unclasped and free, while others covered theirs with polished helmets. They came in the thousands, bearing long spears or dual short swords. The approaching army gave a fierce battle cry. The resounding echo reached the Rohirrim shortly.

Èomer felt a twinge of despair. They had fallen for the trap. The Narnians had wedged them in, allowing the centaur reserve to clinch them in a pincer movement. The king had fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

"Take courage, men!" called the king. "FORTH EORLINGAS!"

The Rohirrim cheered, despite their fear, and charged. The right and left flanks detached from the main body, riding to meet the oncoming centaurs. The rest charged at the remnants of the former force.

The armies met at the last minute, in a scream of metal, man, and horse.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXX\

General Oreius swung his giant broadsword diagonally, and with a mighty bellow. The unfortunate Rohirrim knight flew off his horse, his torso cut into halves. The centaur flared his nostrils, admiring his work.

The centaurs were slowly gaining ground. Their biological frame allowed them better mobility than the human riders, thus they were able to kill faster and easier. Oreius was in the lead, carving a path through the enemy to get to his target: King Èomer. _He_ would obtain the glory of slaying the enemy ruler, and _he_ would present the body to his kings as a testament to his fighting prowess. He lifted his sword in the air with one arm.

"Clans! To me!" he yelled, rearing up in authority.

The gathered centaurs slew whatever knight they had been fighting and yelled back. Five of his sons, brawny centaurs at the cusp of their prime, flanked him. Oreius charged, his kin at his rear. The group mowed down everything in their path.

Seven Rohirrim, having taken down a posse of centaurs, spied the unstoppable entourage make its way to their king, who was hemmed in by a wall of spear-wielding satyrs. They roared and spurred their horses towards Oreius.

Oreius snarled and blocked swipe of a knight's halberd. _Weak_, he thought derisively. He lunged with his hoof, catching the Rohirrim in the gut. The rider gasped, bending down in pain. Oreius swiftly beheaded him. The rest of the riders were quickly dispatched.

"Father," one of his sons called. "The enemy clan-leader is-"

An arrow embedded itself in his forehead. The centaur's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell in a heap. His brothers cried out in dismay, and a spark of anger flared in Oreius' chest. He looked to see one of Èomer's guard nock another arrow into his bow and fell another centaur.

"RAAAAAHHHH!" he roared, brandishing his sword and pointing it at the king. "You are mine, Èomer!"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir dodged to the right.

The minotaur's double-bladed axe whistled through the air, striking the ground where the ranger captain had stood only moments before. Deremir twirled, drawing his short saber in seconds and slashing horizontally. The brown-furred beast bellowed in pain. It locked its red eyes on the ranger and hefted his axe over his gigantic head and horns.

"Too slow," Deremir muttered. He stabbed upwards, pushing the minotaur back as he did. The axe dropped from the creature's nerveless fingers. The minotaur dropped, Deremir's saber halfway through its chain-mailed sternum. The red-haired ranger exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The rangers had been positioned south of Èomer's position. Their task was to defend the Fords from any Narnian force that penetrated the king's army. The first few hours, the boulder-infested shore they inhabited was quiet. The sounds of pitched battle up ahead were the only action they got. Then, out of the blue, a contingent of minotaurs had appeared out from the north, massive and bearing deadly battle axes. They had bypassed the king's men, and meant to stage a flanking attack. Well, they had to get through Deremir and his men first.

The rangers were accompanied by knights, thirty of the Throne Guard. They were adept at archery, as were most of their people, but the rangers still outmatched them. They were good fighters, and Deremir appreciated their help.

It was the rest of them that nagged at his senses.

Two hundred men and boys had held the position with them, but it was now down to ninety-four. Most of them were militia from the various villages and peasantry around the country. Their ages ranged from fourteen to seventy-nine, all of them unprepared for battle. They had been given cheap swords and armor to bring to battle, and most had never fought in their lives. Deremir had seen them flee in fright from the enormous minotaurs. Some had been cowering on the ground when they were cut down. He almost spat on the ground in disgust. _These men and boys are not fighters_, he thought sadly,_ they are common farmers. They should not be here. They should be tending to their land and cattle._

He felt a familiar hand grip his shoulder. He turned to see Elbarad, weary and dirt-stained, looking at him with understanding eyes.

"How are the others?" Deremir asked.

"Fine. Relatively unhurt, save for a few cuts and bruises," the ranger lieutenant answered. He motioned to the other rangers with his head. They were gathered around a large boulder, all still high on the adrenaline rush. Young Torin waved at them from his perch, his foot being attended to by a Rohirrim soldier.

"I hope that the king returns soon," he said gravely. "These farmhands will not last against Peter's fury in an hour."

"I give them thirty minutes, at the most," Elbarad replied, tightening his cloak about his wiry frame. "And I'm being gracious, here."

Deremir slung his bow over his shoulder. "Elbarad, you stay here. I'm going to take a quick look at the battle. Be vigilant, my friend. Kill anything that has fur and can walk."

Deremir looked up suddenly. The lion-like silhouette of a griffin wheeled over their heads once, and then flew back to the west. A few arrows were shot in its direction, but it was too far out of range. Deremir scratched his beard thoughtfully.

"You think that bird was an informant?" Elbarad asked behind him.

"Most likely. I have a feeling King Peter is about to hear some very bad news…"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"My lords," the griffin, Rycro, gasped. "The minotaurs have been killed at the Fords."

Peter froze. "How?"

"It seems the rangers were left to defend the river, joined by a group of knights and other men."

"Other men?" Edmund asked, cantering over to them. "What kind of men?"

"By my observation, King Edmund, mere boys and crones. They are most likely militiamen from the villages that signed the roster."

"Rangers and farmers," Peter mused. "An interesting match. Where are our annoying friends?"

"Just southeast of the main army's former position, my liege. They wait in a field of boulders, which provide them excellent cover."

Peter folded his arms across his chest, the gears in his head churning. He surveyed the rows of scarlet-armored Royal Guard waiting patiently around him. He came to a decision, turning around suddenly.

"Mesinthus!" he called out.

The short satyr came jogging out from the front ranks, coming to a kneel at his king's feet. He was dressed in his ornate armor, plates of steel overlaid with a chain mail sheet."Yes, my king?"

"Ready the Guard. We will finish off Èomer here and now. Then, when his army is dead, we overrun the rear defense. Edmund!"

His brother came galloping out from behind him, a hand on his scabbard. "Yes, brother?"

"We will fight with them."

Edmund grinned, and he rubbed his horse's head excitedly. "Hear that, Philip? We're going to fight again!"

The chestnut horse groaned. "Don't swing too crazily this time. You cut off half of my mane at that one fort."

The younger king chuckled. "Let's go!"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Èomer smashed the flat of his sword across the centaur's face, eliciting a pained grunt. He followed with a short slash to the beast's neck. Dark blood spurted from the fatal wound, dropping the warrior instantly. He backed his horse up from the corpse, eying his opponents as they surrounded him.

"Menathil! Svèntan!" he said to his remaining guardsmen. Forlon and Camet were killed by the centaur ambush. "Cover my back. Now."

The young Rohirrim positioned their steeds at their king's back, halberds shaking in their grips. The centaurs circled around them like sharks, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. One of the centaurs, the largest, pointed at Èomer with a broadsword that could've run through all three of them at the same time.

"You," he growled menacingly. "Foreign king. Your guard slew one of my kin. You and your protectors shall pay for that."

Èomer curled his lip and took off his helmet, much to the dismay of his last two guards. His long yellow hair fluttered freely in the wind, somewhat matted with sweat. "Turn those words into actions, man-beast. You and yours will be hard-pressed to slay the king of Rohan and his men."

The centaur guffawed arrogantly. "Your numbers dwindle, little king. Your corpse will be presented in our camps until the flies consume it all." He gripped his sword with both hands. "Now, fight."

The centaur's sons attacked the two guardsmen, while he himself faced the king.

Èomer lunged. Herugrim clashed with the broadsword in a flurry of steel. The king gritted his teeth as the centaur pushed him back. He could feel the creature's tremendous strength; it was nigh unbearable. Èomer gripped his reins with one hand and pulled his horse to the side. The centaur leader pitched forward, his opponent having evaded him too fast.

Èomer snarled and swung. The centaur blocked it, and slashed. They went at it more, alone in the chaos of the battle around them. Èomer noted the dim screams of his guards as they were cut down by the brute's sons. The Rohirrim were falling all around him, but he pressed on.

He saw the centaur's fist, but he was too slow to escape the swift punch to the belly. He gasped for air, dimly aware that he had fallen off his steed in his pain. The grass below him was stained with the blood of Rohirrim and Narnian alike. The shadow of the centaur appeared over him, a mask of determination and admiration on his tan face.

"You fought well, son of Adam. But one does not incur the wrath of Oreius and live. Farewell, king of Rohan."

An arrow flew out of the blue and landed on Oreius' side.

The general cursed, dropping his sword as he stumbled to the side. Blood welled from between his fingers as he clutched the arrow and withdrew it from his body with a squelch. He roared in pain.

Èomer rose from the ground, running towards Herugrim, which had fallen beside his horse.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Deremir had arrived in the middle of the fray, using his short saber to make quick work of any Narnian who would dare cross his path. He knew the Rohirrim would be overtaken soon, it was inevitable. Thousands lay dead on the plains, and more were joining them. He stopped at a random boulder jutting out from the ground. A griffin's corpse was sprawled on the boulder face, a dozen arrows embedded in its limp body. Deremir shoved it off with a grunt.

He drew his arrow, looking for any valuable targets. He suppressed a gasp. King Èomer was on the ground, and standing over him was a large centaur with a broadsword. Said broadsword was in the air, ready to deal the killing blow.

Deremir had never shot an arrow so fast in his life.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Èomer lifted his sword and sprinted towards the stumbling centaur. His back was turned, so Oreius never saw the king jump and whack him upside the head with the flat of his blade. The general slumped to the ground, unconscious. Èomer sighed, lowering his sword a fraction.

"Vile monarch!" a hate-filled voice said from his right. "You slew father!"

Èomer went into a battle stance as four young centaurs surrounded him. They brandished their short swords. "ROOAAAAH!" one of them shouted. The centaur charged and swung. An arrow zipped through the air and landed on his throat. The others met similar fates as a hidden archer cleanly dispatched the sons of the general. Èomer was both impressed and saddened. The archer was very skilled, but the centaur, Oreius, would awaken to a sad scene.

However, he was thankful for the help.

Battle cries drew his attention to his left. His eyes widened in shock.

The Royal Guard was marching across the field, violently slaughtering any Rohirrim that got in its way. The king could see that their strange formation allowed no cavalry to break its ranks in a direct charge. They could be taken from the rear, but Èomer's riders were few. At the forefront, dealing death and destruction in their wake, were the kings of Narnia.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Peter blocked a flying halberd that had been launched by a wounded knight. He caught it as it fell and returned the favor. The soldier fell back, the short axe lodged in his skull, straight through the metal helmet. He pivoted his unicorn, rearing it as three Rohirrim charged him. One of them threw a lance, which missed him by a hair. Peter's steed kicked one of the knights in the face, ending him.

The king faced the remaining two, twirling his sword in preparation.

One of them spurred his horse forward and struck. Peter parried, only to be caught in the shoulder by the other warrior. He winced, but evaded another blow. The High King swung his sword in a vicious arc. The second soldier dropped to the ground, beheaded.

The last knight roared in challenge and rained three strong blows on the king. Peter blocked them cleanly, ducked, and split the other's belly open. The soldier groaned in agony, falling to the ground with his horse. Peter ended his pain with another slash.

"Brother!" Edmund called from the distance. "How goes it?"

"Excellent, Edmund! How do you fare?"

Edmund was moving Philip like an expert. He pivoted this way and that, outmaneuvering even the experienced Rohirrim that pursued him. He leaned backwards, escaping a slash that would've lopped off his head, and struck back. The knight twitched spasmodically in his saddle, his chest cavity having been torn open. Mesinthus and five fauns leapt atop the other Rohirrim, stabbing ferociously at the surprised warriors.

Peter looked away. Some things were just too much, even in battle.

Before he knew it, someone tackled him out of his saddle. Peter growled, kicking his opponent away and using his pommel to nail him in the chin. The man fell backwards, and the light of the sun shone upon his face.

"Èomer!" Peter called almost jovially. "Did your horse leave you, or did you decide to fight as a little boy today?"

The king of Rohan looked terrible. His leather-plated armor was torn in dozens of places, and his helmet was missing, revealing grime-stained yellow hair. His face was red with exertion and fury, and he walked with a slight limp. His sword, a beautiful blade stained crimson with the blood of his foes, was gripped in one hand.

"Peter," the monarch gasped, his eyes fixed on the noble-looking young man in front of him. "This is between you and me."

Peter shrugged. "So be it."

He started with an overhand strike aimed towards Èomer's head. The king dodged the blow, slashing horizontally at the Narnian's steel-armored waist. Peter parried it, and struck once more. They fought across the field, each one well versed in the art of combat. They were left alone; no would dare interrupt two kings in anything, whether it be fighting or simple conversation. Edmund gave a worried look at his brother, but galloped away.

It was soon, however, when Èomer's sword hand began to flag. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and he stumbled when pursuing his calm opponent. Peter clucked his tongue is disapproval and promptly disarmed Èomer with a flick of his sword. The king of Rohan fell to his knees, his beloved Herugrim landing a few feet away. He stared defiantly at Peter, his chest heaving.

"Do it, boy," he said calmly. "Kill me. Kill a man who has done you no wrong."

Peter stood silently, the tip of his sword resting against Èomer's throat. He stared at the fellow king with his unfathomable blue eyes, eyes that were as cold as a glacier.

"Give me back my sister," he snarled, his eyes suddenly blazing with a fiery fury. "Then we'll talk."

He gave a fierce battle cry and slashed downwards.

Èomer fell back, a wide line of scarlet etched onto his breastplate, running from his left shoulder to his right hip. Flecks of blood flew away from his still body as it touched the ground. Red rivulets ran from the horrid wound, dropping to the grass below. His eyes were closed, his face pale.

"Peter!" a voice said.

He turned to see Mesinthus looking at him with a strange expression of revulsion and pity on his face. He slowly approached him, his paws up.

"What was the purpose of killing him?" the satyr captain asked, one eye twitching as blood from a wound on his forehead ran down on it. "Did it satisfy you, my liege?"

Peter's eyes cooled, and he shook his head as if shaking away a mosquito. He looked troubled; the king looked from Èomer's limp body to Mesinthus, confused.

"I-I didn't…I wasn't meaning to…Look," he sputtered, his sword falling from his fingers. "I didn't kill him."

Mesinthus tilted his head, puzzled.

A tortured cry came from the distance. "Èomer is dead! The king is dead!"

The screams rent the air, screams of despair and anguish. The screams tore through Peter's soul, and he knelt in sudden weakness. "I'm sorry," he whispered quietly. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."

The cries kept going; however, they didn't seem to stop. Peter clutched his ears, trying in vain to block the terrible noise. Mesinthus' warm hands wrapped around his shoulders, and he whispered words of encouragement to the king. "Do not fear, my king. The battle is won."

"Not yet, satyr," a weak voice croaked. "Not yet."

The captain of the Royal Guard whirled to see Èomer on his hands and knees, blood dripping nonstop from his wound. He smiled, and withdrew a curved horn from his belt. He stood, shaking as he did, but he stood. With all the strength he could muster, the king of Rohan brought the horn to his lips and blew.

The sad sound echoed through the flatlands, stopping everyone in their tracks. It went on and on, stopping finally in an almost reluctant fade.

Then, Rohan's trump card went into effect.

The distant beat sounded like thunder, but the combatants of the plain knew all too well what it really was. A dust cloud appeared from the east, growing closer and closer until what caused it could be seen in the shining sun.

Four thousand Rohirrim riders rode into the battlefield, led by tall figures in mottled green cloaks. They stampeded in a rushing tide, destroying any Narnian unlucky enough to be caught in their wake. Their terrifying battle cries rent the air, amplified and quickened by the breeze. They smashed into the Narnian's left flank, disrupting any form of order they had maintained. The Narnian army, the grand, enormous, skilled Narnian army, had been routed.

Peter looked on, completely dumbfounded. A pair of strong arms gripped him, followed by more as the Royal Guard rushed to drag their king to safety. He never seemed to notice them as his dreams of victory and conquest seemed to fall apart before his very eyes. Peter was roughly turned around, and blue eyes met yellow as Mesinthus stared intently at him.

"My liege, we _must retreat_. They will cut us down; they have gained too much momentum." As he spoke, another horn blew from the south, and thousands of riders were coming in, using the same tactic that Peter had so confidently used. "They mean to pincer us into submission and take you and your brother away. My king, we must go _now_!"

The logic and sense in Peter kicked into action, and he pushed himself away and mounted his horse in one fluid motion. He lifted his sword, calling out to his army.

"Sound the retreat!" he said to Mesinthus. "Do it, now!"

Mesinthus blew the horn, doling out the tune of retreat that all Narnians either despised or savored. The Narnians reformed ranks as orderly as they could, falling back to the west in a frenzied state of fear and anxiety. Horns blew quickly, rushed to the point of confusion. Peter pushed all of the soldiers away from danger, his sword in hand.

"Go!" he cried desperately. "Go to the camps, due west! Run!"

He turned his head this way and that, searching for and finding the one he sought after. "Edmund!" he called. "Retreat!"

His brother spun in his saddle, his face pink with exertion and excitement. The younger king turned Philip about, galloping over to his brother quickly.

"Brother, they are hemming us in! We have to-"

Time seemed to slow for Peter as the arrow traversed the ruined landscape and hurtled towards the back of Edmund. He reached for Edmund, his hand outstretched. "Edmund!" he cried out desperately. "MOVE AWAY! TURN AWAY!"

It was too late.

Edmund's confused expression slowly faded to one of pain as the arrow landed _through_ his right shoulder, and clean out. He growled in pain, lifting his sword to cleave through his offender. Another arrow came and hit him through the side.

Another landed on the small of his back.

One flew so hard it pinned his left shoulder, throwing him off his horse and to the ground.

The last hit him under the ribs, causing a fountain of blood to erupt from his torso. He screamed.

It was a scream that Peter would remember for the rest of his life.

"NOOOOOOO!" he shrieked in anguish. "Edmund!"

His body was still, right beside the prone figure of King Èomer. Dismounting, Peter clawed his way through the retreating throng of Narnians, making his way to his fallen brother. He turned him around, gravely noting his pale face and bloody frame. "No," he whimpered. "No…Don't die on me, brother. Not today."

Mesinthus raced over to them with two satyrs bearing a stretcher. He helped Peter carry Edmund and place him onto the white litter. They ran gingerly, being careful not to drop their injured king. Peter mounted the unicorn, his attention locked onto Edmund all the time.

"Hurry!" he said to Mesinthus. "Get him back to the camp."

As they sprinted away, Peter felt a pair of eyes watching him. He fixed his gaze on a tall figure in a gray cloak standing next to a boulder. He bore a long bow, with an arrow placed into the nock. Peter knew the man. It was the ranger who had stopped them on the road so long ago, and who had defied Narnia at every turn in the Forodwaith and in Arnor. He memorized the red beard and hair, the gray eyes, the tanned face. He would remember it until it stared sightless at the sky, dead by Peter's hand.

"I'm coming for you," he mouthed.

Peter turned and rode away.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"So," Elbarad said slowly. The rangers were inside a stuffy tent, the fire at the center their only source of light at night. "Èomer had arranged for Faramir to gather any remaining riders in Rohan and lead the two thousand men he had left behind to ambush the Narnians at the sound of the horn?"

"Seems like it," Deremir sighed, staring intently at one of the arrows he had plucked from the battlefield. Every part of it was crusty with dried blood, indicating it had ran straight through its victim. "It was a foolish move, but it won the day. Well, more or less."

"How is the king doing, anyway?" a ranger, Larsen, said from the back.

"In grave condition," Deremir answered. "Peter's strike had nearly tore him in two. The healers will have a long night trying to get the man to recover. Larsen, check on him now."

The middle-aged ranger nodded and exited the tent. The room was silent for a few moments after his departure. Torin cleared his throat, his green eyes somber.

"Will the High King continue his campaign, or will he quit? After you killed his brother, I mean, who would?"

"Don't be so sure," Deremir interjected, throwing a stick idly into the fire. "From what I've seen, the kings of Narnia are made of strong material."

"You stuck him in a hundred different places, of _course_ he's dead." Elbarad scoffed. "You should be happy, son. You've stopped a whole war."

Deremir fixed his old friend with a gaze that chilled him to the bone. "I don't think so, Elbarad. I have a feeling that this war is just beginning."

**AN: I have trouble writing big battle scenes, so if it's not to your taste, blame me. NO FLAMES POR FAVOR and please R&R! If you have any questions about typos or mistakes, PM me or review, because there's bound to be some mistake of some kind. I'm not the best writer out there, so bear with me (starting to become my favorite phrase). Anyways, have a happy rest of the week (might not update in a while. Finals and all that). Till then! **


	11. Past, Present, and Future

**AN: Howdy, folks! Sorry for the wait, holidays with the family and all that (NBA SEASON, BABY!) . I wanted to get back to this for a while, but I was busy with having fun with my cousins from California. We had a great time, and the first thing I did after they left was get back on the story. Not as great as I wanted it to be, what with all my mediocre writing skills. Its short, a filler chapter at the least. Just some insight on the past and a surprise in the present. Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I own nada.**_

**OF THE LANDS NORTH OF MIDDLE-EARTH**

_**"Through long ages the Valar dwelt in bliss in the light of the Trees beyond the Mountains of Aman, but all Middle-Earth lay in a twilight under the stars…"**_**- The Silmarillion**

_So it had come when the lands of the north were come upon by the Valar, it being heavily shrouded by a dark mist. Manwë came, along with his spouse, the fair Varda, who knew all the regions of Eä. They treaded atop the barren land, the blizzards raging fierce and strong._

_ "Alas!" Manwë cried. "This storm proves too strong! It is as if Eru Himself, Blessed may He be, denies us our passage!"_

_ At this they were deeply troubled, and they turned to depart from the forsaken snow. As they turned, a mighty roar was heard from the depths of the blizzard, and the two Valar faced the source with awe._

_ "Honored Ainur! You near trespass upon my sacred ground! Is it at the beckon of your master you come, or is it at your own will?"_

_ "Stranger," Varda replied, her voice as soft as spring. "We do not know you. Come; show yourself so that we may be familiar!"_

_ At her words a great lion appeared from the snow. He shone like the sun, his mane voluminous and countenance proud. His eyes gleamed eerily in the hail, and he pierced the souls of the Valar with a glance._

_ "Nay!" he exclaimed. "Eru Ilúvatar has no part in this. You have come by your own curiosity. Yea, though you bear no ill intention, return south to your lands at once! Turn your backs to me, and make it certain I never see your faces again! For the wrath of Aslan, son of the Emperor, is terrible. Begone!"_

_ The Valar fled the north, terror at their wake. When they returned to Arda, they lifted a great wall of mountains in the north, and increased the amount of blizzards. The Ainur took counsel, and they swore never to speak of this Aslan again, and they took care to bar any visitors to the far north for millennia to come…_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**Post-Creation Days, Narnia**

"What…" King Frank I said, his eyes wide and mouth open. "What is it?"

A great wall stretched from east to west, taller than the tallest mountain and wider than anything the First King of Narnia had ever seen. It was translucent; he could catch a glimpse of white from the other side, but that was all.

"It is the Borderline," Aslan said, his amber eyes also fixed onto the towering substance. "I erected it many ages ago."

Frank, whose plump face was shiny with sweat, turned to the Great Lion. "Why would you build this? To keep us in?"

"Yes," answered the lion. Aslan faced the human king. "And to keep things out."

Frank's eyes widened, but Aslan gave him a comforting smile. "Do not be afraid, dear one. No danger shall cross unless you cross before it. I brought you here to tell you that I made this barrier for a reason, Frank. What lies on the other side was not meant for Narnia, or any country for that matter. Make sure _no one_ goes through this Borderline, or grave things will come to pass. Understood?"

"Understood…" Frank whispered, his eyes still wide. "Aslan, is that snow I see?"

"Come, Frank…" Aslan remarked, ignoring the man's question. "You and Helen have much planning to do."

In a flash of bright light, they were gone.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_As the centuries passed, and Frank and his first sons gone to the grave, the memory of the Borderline became a distant rumor. The guard was sent back, and the warning signs faded and aged considerably over the years. No one even bothered to travel south; as far as they were concerned, all that was there was more desert. Time passed by, and the Borderline was left alone, until an intrepid traveler from Calormen, having traveled hundreds of miles to seek out a legendary wall from the distant past, found his quarry at last… _

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Burak Al-Barahi was tired.

He did not know how long he had ridden, nor how far. The desert was immeasurable, and the sky had not changed since the sun had risen from the east. Under his thick turban, his face and hair was matted with sweat. He had taken his tunic off in frustration earlier, and the sun beat at his broad back mercilessly and without restraint. He slowly shook the contents of his canister.

"Two more hours," he wheezed, licking his cracked lips. "That is how long I will last. When I am gone, Mirna, what will you do?"

His camel bleated in response.

Burak chuckled. "I know you are tired, too. I wish that we will die together, though. That would be a fitting death for you and me."

He rode in silence, feeling the strength ebb from his body and not having the power to do a thing about it. Mirna shook under him, dehydration finally taking a toll on his faithful friend and steed. They had been on many an adventure: traversing the mountains of the barren Ettinsmoor, along the beaches of the Eastern Coast, basically all over Calormen, near the borders of Telmar, deep into Narnia and Archenland, and now here. His friends had insulted him for taking a camel as a companion for every journey, but he ignored them. A man's best friend is a sturdy camel, his father had always said. _Now, _the traveler thought, _we will succumb to the sun at last._

His camel howled, and Burak nearly fell off his saddle.

"What is it, Mirna?" he croaked. "What is…?"

He squinted into the horizon, and his eyes widened.

"HA!" he cried, new strength fueling every inch of his weak frame. "Forward, Mirna! We are here!"

The camel galloped down the dunes, encouraged by her master's excited voice. They stopped, and Burak got off his ride and stared in wonder at what stood before him.

It soared into the heavens, taller than anything the traveler had ever seen. The wall stretched from left to right, east to west, farther and farther until his weary eyes could see no more. It shimmered like a pool of crystalline water, catching the sunlight and winking at Burak like it held a secret no one would know about.

Until now.

He gripped Mirna's reins, took a deep breath, and took a step forward. There was a vague sensation of falling into a pond, and he opened his eyes.

"Ahh!" he yelped, his limbs flailing to cover his bare torso.

It was cold. No, it was _freezing_. Snow fell relentlessly on the harsh tundra landscape before him, and the wind was howling like demons. He took a hold of Mirna and walked forward, bewildered and not knowing what else to do. The camel bleated pitifully in the blizzard, but there was nothing Burak could do.

He was utterly confused. _What in Tash's name happened? I was in the hottest desert I had ever crossed, and know I am in a blizzard?_ His mind reeled, and before he knew it, he couldn't feel his legs. Or any of his body parts, for that matter. Mirna pulled free from his grip, galloping and bleating into the snow. Burak tried to chase after, but he couldn't even take another step. Mirna disappeared into the distance.

He fell to the snow, despair strangling his soul. Mirna was gone. Suddenly, the snow was warm, like a luxurious blanket from the court of Tashbaan itself. He closed his eyes, all the pain and despair banished from his mind and body.

He fell asleep.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"What are we going to do with him?"

"Leave him here, captain. He is beyond saving now."

"Cease that talk, Elbarad. Nothing is beyond salvation. We saved him from the cold, and he has a pulse, weak as it is. We wait."

There was a quiet snort, and the sound of footsteps on wood. A door slammed, and Burak opened his eyes.

He was on a blanket next to a blazing fire, his naked body covered by a linen sheet. Dark shapes were gathered around him, and he pictured devils from hell coming to consume his body. He rose in a panic, but steady hands pushed him down.

"Don't stand, stranger," a gruff voice said. "You'll only hurt yourself."

"Who are you?" Burak demanded! "What do you want with me?"

The hooded figures stared at him in silence, and the traveler realized he was speaking in his native tongue. They spoke the common tongue, it seemed. He oriented himself, and began to speak.

"My apologies. I just want to know how I arrived here amongst you."

One of them turned to another, a silent conversation playing out between them. The stranger removed his hood, revealing an old craggy face edged with oily black hair that fell in curls. His eyes glinted like stone, and he observed Burak carefully.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

"I am Burak Al-Barahi, a traveler from the nation of Calormen. I came here to seek a Borderline, and I found it. My camel was lost, presumably dead. Who are you?"

The stony man stared at him for a minute. He nodded to himself.

"You have a strange name, and I've never heard of a nation called Calormen in all my life. We found your…camel…half-buried in the snow, like you. We coaxed it back to good health, although we didn't have the faintest clue of what is was. I feel you have much explaining to do. Deremir!"

The door opened, and a man walked into the small room. He was tall, over six feet, with crimson hair atop his head and covering his chin. Blue eyes peered curiously at Burak, but moved over to the other man.

"Yes, captain." he said, standing at attention.

"Acquire the man's things from the bags. Tell Elbarad to help you, also. The man owes it to 'Burak' considering he offered to dump him out the snow once more. The man's getting too old, and pretty soon we'll have to wipe his own arse for him."

Deremir's lips twitched, but otherwise he remained still.

"What are you waiting for," the captain barked. "Go…"

The tall man turned heel and exited the room.

"He's a good boy," the captain murmured to the others. "The best I've ever seen, better than his father. He has true Dùnedain blood running through his veins, that one. He will do great things in the future."

The other men grunted in assent. Burak tried to get up, but the man pushed him down. "Rest, friend. There is no rush. We'll get out of this forsaken cold soon, so lay back."

"Where are we going?" the traveler whispered, sleep overcoming him.

"Why, to Minas Tirith," the man answered. His voice was muffled, barely audible through Burak's ears. _What's a Minas Tirith?_ "You are going to have an audience with the king and queen themselves…"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_Burak Al-Barahi traveled along with the rangers across Middle-Earth, awe-struck at the new land he had discovered. He mapped their route from the Forodwaith to Gondor, meeting elves and dwarves and other men that were a part of a culture so foreign to him. When he arrived in Minas Tirith, he told King Aragorn and Queen Arwen of everything he knew about Narnia and the surrounding lands. The traveler knew King Edmund personally, and he was willing to introduce them if they wished. So began the meeting of Narnia and Middle-Earth, two nations that were separated for countless eons._

_ The ranger captain, Cartan, escorted Burak back to the Borderline, having become good friends with the traveler. He later died of a fever that had killed hundreds in Arnor during that time, and Burak was greatly distressed. Deremir became the Third Captain of the company, succeeding Cartan._

_ Burak Al-Barahi still lives in the palace at Tashbaan, rich and credited for the discovery of the nation of Middle-Earth. He named his son Cartan, in honor of his friend. They were the first people from the different continents to have formed a friendship._

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**Narnian Camp**

**Present Day**

The whole camp was in an uproar. Crowds of anxious soldiers herded around the Royal Tent, held at bay by stoic centaurs. Soldiers rushed to and fro in a panic, spreading the fact that a monarch was near death. Nearly every tent was empty; they had all come to visit the gravely wounded king. The cries of the masses were apparent: Was King Edmund going to survive?

Mesinthus stuck his head out of the tent, eyes squinting into the glaring sun. Immediately, the soldiers cheered at his arrival; the ground itself seemed to quake at the sound. The Royal Captain gave a shaky smile and approached Oreius. The centaur had a cloth tied around his head, a marker of his battle injury. He had experienced worse, but the deaths of his sons were the real wound. The proud, vibrant centaur warrior was now diminished to a somber old soldier with too many scars to feel good about them.

"What's happened?" Mesinthus asked quietly, waving to the soldiers half-heartedly.

"Nothing much," Oreius grunted. "The occasional fool who tries to break through, but otherwise, nothing major. How goes the king?"

"Not good," Mesinthus sighed. "The healers are working overtime, but _five arrows_…and he's a Son of Adam."

"He's strong for a human," the centaur general countered. "He'll come through it. Not unscathed, for sure, but through all the same. I've seen men worse off get up walking."

"Don't lie."

"All right, I haven't. All I'm saying is that the strength of man is not by physicality alone, but by will and determination. Edmund's fighting for his life inside that tent, Mesinthus, and usually when Edmund picks a fight, he wins."

"Usually, my friend. Usually. Anyways, where's that scumbag Mantèra and his company?"

"The Telmarine fool? Probably partying with his men in their dingy tent like dumb animals. We both know they would do anything to overthrow the Kings and Queens of Narnia."

Mesinthus shrugged. The pleas of the crowd increased in volume; they wanted to know if their king was going to live. Mesinthus resisted the urge to cover his ears. Tens of thousands of warriors hollering for all they were worth was louder than a thunderstorm. Much louder. He turned back to the tent and almost ran straight into the healer from Archenland. The head healer was a woman with long brown hair (although this time it was tied into a bun) and fair features. _Well,_ the satyr thought, _for a human, anyway_.

"Is he okay?" he inquired fervently but quietly. Unfortunately, at her arrival the crowd hushed as if signaled by the words of the king himself. "Will he be alright?"

The woman ran a hand across her sweaty forehead. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the tent, and she was clutching a damp rag in one palm.

"He is still alive, if that's any comfort." she informed the captain in a low voice. "We will need to stay at his side constantly, however, until he recovers completely."

A great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and Mesinthus grinned. "So, he will be fine."

The woman scowled. "Fine? Your king suffered two decimated shoulder blades, a pierced lung, fractured ribs, near-total blood loss, and a ravaged kidney. If we attend to him every second, which we are planning to do, he will be ready at the end of the year. If not, you best pray to your Lion that King Edmund will live to see his precious brother destroy Middle-Earth."

With that said, she whirled back into the tent.

The weight was back, and heavier than ever. He trudged back to Oreius. "I'm going back inside."

"Understood."

"Any word from Peter?" the captain asked hopefully.

' "The High King has not yet returned from his little excursion to the north. I believe a flock of griffins watch his route, but no sign of his journey back has been confirmed. All we can do is wait. Wait and see if our High King Peter the Magnificent has not gone completely insane."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

**Ice Bay of Forochel**

**Northern Middle-Earth/Forodwaith**

Peter had not known the last time he could be by himself. The recent years had not allowed him any. Wars, politics, personal affairs, finances, etc. gave the High King of Narnia little time to stop, sit, and think. Now, alone at his order, he could rest.

He was sitting on a boulder, on a small island about a few feet away from the coast. His clothes were wet; he had swum to get to the boulder. Below him, the cold water gently lapped on the shore, nearly grazing his feet. In the distance, the setting sun painted the sea and sky with red, orange, and purple, dark hues that kindled warmth in the young king's belly. He sighed, skipping a stone along the rippling waters.

_Five arrows. Three fatal. Outlook grim. Expectation of life low. Sorry, my lord. My apologies, my king. Hope he gets better, your majesty._

"AAARGGH!"

He threw his last stone as far he could, rage coursing through his body like wildfire. He roared more, venting his fury to the heavens. Peter howled for what seemed a lifetime, cursing and forsaking everything until he slumped down, tears pouring down his face relentlessly.

"Why Aslan?" he moaned. "Why? Is it because of what I did? Start a war? I'd take it all back, you know I would. I'd take everything back! Just don't let him die….please."

Silence.

"This wasn't supposed to happen! None of this was supposed to happen! I was supposed to win that battle, and Rohan would be mine. Edmund wasn't supposed to get hurt!"

A flock of seagulls squawked nearby a cliff face, ignorant of the broken soul deteriorating below them.

"I DIDN'T WANT ANYONE TO DIE! I'M SORRY! I'M SO SORRY! PLEASE, ASLAN, JUST…just…don't…I don't want to feel this pain anymore. I don't want to hurt."

He knelt, ignoring the fact that the waves were beginning to increase, and that dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, covering the glorious sun until all was dark. Lightning flashed in the sky, and thunder pealed and rumbled. Peter could distantly hear cries of distress from the howling skies, but he paid them no attention.

"Everything…is my fault," he whispered to himself. "I…am the reason…Edmund is going to die."

Hard talons gripped him by the shoulders, followed by urgent pleas from the beak of a griffin. Peter disentangled himself furiously, his face purple with self-loathing. "LET ME GO!" He pushed the distressed griffin away from him.

Suddenly, a wave loomed above him like a beast, casting a menacing shadow over the High King. He had just enough time to yelp in shock until the water hit him like a sledgehammer and sent him sprawling into the cold embrace of the sea.

He flailed underwater, trying to grab a hold of the boulder he had sat on. All he grabbed was more water, however, as the strong tide pushed him deeper and deeper in. _I should be getting closer to the shore_, he figured desperately,_ I was thrown behind me, so I should be near the beach_. He waited, but the sea had different ideas. The current was wild, unpredictable. It seemed to have a mind of its own, tossing Peter up and over and never near the shore. His hand touched surface, and he pushed himself up. Peter gasped for air, and through his blurry eyes he could see a group of griffins wheeling frantically overhead.

"Over here!" he gurgled, but the water took him down again.

Everything was dark underwater; he couldn't figure out which way was up and which was down. A sense of complete isolation and fear choked his spirit. He was going to die alone in the cold waters of the Forodwaith; end his campaign where it began. He groaned pitifully, his arms up and hands reaching desperately for open air. The water surrounded him, filling his whole body with icy fear and desperation.

_No. Not today._

He pushed with his whole body, his frame stretching to its utmost limit. The veins bulged in his neck, and the muscles in his torso and legs strained to push their user to the top. He roared, bubbles escaping from his open mouth. A rock hit him on the chest, but he pushed it away. With one final push, he reached the surface. Harsh wind bit his face, and he almost fell back into the water from the shock. Shaking it off, he let the waves push him to the rocky shore.

He landed with a gasp, the tide receding from his limp frame. His clothes stuck to him as if it were a part of his body, and his mind was as tumultuous as the storm. Something tapped his foot, and, groaning, he looked over.

He had thought what had hit him was a rock, but he was mistaken. The thing was too spherical to be a crude stone; there were no dents or scratches on its perfect hull. Peter crouched warily, his eyes locked onto the orb. It was dark, and a misty substance rolled inside of it, drawing the eye to its hypnotic movements. Shadowy hues shimmered across its surface, evoking wonder in the gasping king.

Gingerly, he wrapped his hands around it.

Pain like nothing he had ever felt struck his mind like lightning. He screamed, falling back to the shore in surprise and anguish. His hands were still clutching it, however, as if attached by glue. Deep voices echoed overwhelmingly in his head, speaking in a tongue that tortured his soul with each harsh consonant. Peter had the feeling he had opened the gates of hell and let its inhabitants run amok in his mind. The onslaught of words and pain ceased, and Peter lay exhausted on the beach, gasping like a landed fish.

The griffins came for him later, but he did not respond to anything they asked him. The flock flew him to the nearest outpost, where he was treated by the healers stationed there. Again, he was silent. They did not know that inside the High King's mind, a battle for his soul was raging.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The man was dark-haired, with features as pale as the moon. He had a noble face, more handsome than any of the men in the royal courts Peter had visited. Dark eyes peered at him curiously from his oval-shaped face, and there was a mischievous gleam in his smoldering pupils. A midnight-black tunic covered his chest, and a long black garment that covered his lower body and fell to his ankles accounted for his lower half. It was, in the loosest sense of the term, a skirt, but there was nothing silly about it when the man wore it. He wore golden bracelets studded with luminous pearls around his wrists.

They were in a wooden room. A window was in the left side of the room, and brilliant sunlight poured in from what looked like a stately countryside. In the far end of the room, there stood an ornate oaken wardrobe, alone and unmoving.

"Where am I?" Peter asked. He looked down to see he was still in his turquoise Royal clothes, but this time it wasn't wet.

"You are in a place significant in your memory," the man spoke suddenly. His voice was lyrical, ands a soft as a spring morning. It seemed to echo in the small room, evoking waves of calm through the High King's body. "For whatever reason, you think that this room means something important to you. Very important."

"Who are you?" Peter demanded, reaching for a sword and finding it wasn't there.

The man chuckled, noticing the movement with a twitch of his eyes. He smiled, a pure gratifying smile that lit up the room. "You are a warrior, that much I know. A seasoned one, at that. You know many a battle, stranger. Let us be familiar with one another."

The man took a step forward, and Peter took one step back. The man smiled again, and the effect was dramatic. He bowed elegantly, his form practiced and graceful.

"My name is Annatar," the man said. "I am the spirit present in the Palantìr you acquired. I must say, I wasn't expecting company for quite some time."

Peter stared at him, trying to find any lie in the stranger's voice. He found none.

"Hello…Annatar," Peter greeted carefully. "Where am I?"

Annatar looked at him with a confused expression, one dainty eyebrow above the other. "Did I not say? This place is a significant location in your memory. So, hypothetically, I should be asking you that question."

Peter's eyebrows scrunched together. "But…I don't remember this place."

"All is well, friend. You will remember in time. Forgive me, but you did not give me your name."

"I am High King Peter the Magnificent, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, Wolfsbane, and Slayer of Giants." He spoke with pride, having those names bestowed upon him by Aslan himself.

The man appraised him with a quick once-over. "My, my. I am in the presence of a king. Must I bow?"

Peter waved a hand. "Don't bother. I have enough of that every day. What I really want you to do is explain to me why we're having this conversation. Last thing I remember was that I fell down on the shore."

Annatar nodded. "True. Your conscience, however, retreated into your mind, apparently locked out by the shock of my inspection of you."

Peter narrowed his eyes, the suspicion returning. "That was you?"

The noble-looking man spread his arms in supplication. "Forgive me, King Peter. I cannot let any man just grasp my abode. I needed one worthy enough, so I needed to see what sort of man you are."

"And?"

Annatar smiled. "I was not disappointed. My roughness was…unnecessary, but you must understand. I have not done this in…quite some time."

Peter tilted his head. "Who a_re_ you?"

Annatar leaned against the wardrobe, which creaked under his weight. His dark eyes darkened even more, as if recalling long-forgotten days.

"I am your friend," he said after a while. "That is all you need to know. For now, at least. I will speak with you later. Your mind is beginning to reorganize, and your consciousness back to reality. He opened the wardrobe door, and beyond it, Peter could barely see a hint of white snow.

Peter stumbled towards it, hypnotized.

_"Susan, get off me!"_

_ "Lucy, you're on my foot!"_

_ "Stop pushing me, Peter!"_

"Oh," Annatar interrupted, bringing his face close to the king's. "You newfound enemies, the Gondorian king and his elf friend. You were right to confront them, King Peter. They have also done me a grievous wrong, and I intend to enact justice. I will be with you every step of the way, my friend. Go."

Peter pushed himself into the wardrobe, and into the light.

**AN: Hope y'all enjoyed it! Please R&R, and NO FLAMES PLEASE! Have a great New Year (for those who have it this week)! **


	12. Submission

**AN: Hello, everyone. Yes, I have returned. I am not dead. I had a huge stint of writer's block for this story, and after several rewrites, I ended up with this…thing. I know, it's confusing and a bit dramatic, not to mention short, but I wanted to highlight Peter's struggle against Annatar (I'm sure you all know who he really is). It is short, but it's really heavy. Bear with me, longer chapters ahead. Oh, and if you hate Peter by the end of this chapter…you should be.**

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I don't own anything that isn't mine. If I did, I wouldn't be here.**_

"What's going on? He was conscious just a minute ago! Why'd he fall asleep so fast?"

"I dunno, cap'n. Maybe we should get the medics."

"No. They're busy attending to King Edmund. We must wait."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_AAAARRRRGGGH! Stop it…get out…of my…head!_

_**You cannot fight me, little king.**_

_You said…that you'd help me! You lied! LIAR! You said I was regaining consciousness! You ensnared me in my moment of…AAARGGH! …weakness!_

_**I am helping you, Peter. You are fighting against my earnest council.**_

_You're…ugh…hurting me! Stop it…please! ARGGH!_

_**There, there, **_**mellon nin**_**. Your campaign against me proves useless. Rest easy, Pevensie…submit, for your own good.**_

_I…will…_not!___I can see what you're trying to do to me! You're trying to…to…_

_**What? I assure you, my king, all that I am doing is for your benefit. You did want to become stronger, yes?**_

…_yes…yes, I did._

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Has he recovered from his sleep, yet?"

"Not yet, cap'n. He's sweatin' buckets in there, sir, loads of 'em. I 'ent sure that he's gettin' any better."

"…Thank you, Decimus. Return to your post."

"Yes, sir."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_ARRRRGHHHH!_

_**Why do you resist? It only hurts the more you fight back.**_

_What…are you doing to me?_

_**Must I repeat myself, my lord? I am redirecting your emotional stress to more dormant areas of your mind. Doing this will give you more comfort and stability in the days to come. The ravaging of your brother has laid a severe toll on you indeed.**_

_My brother…Edmund…_

_**Yes, Peter. Edmund, your younger. The ranger wounded him in the battle, remember? Fatal, grisly wounds…**_

_Oh, Edmund…what have I done? I am not-UUNNGHHHH! STOP IT!_

_**Only a little more, Peter, and the process will be complete.**_

_You're lying to me! You're not…ARGH! ...helping me!_

_**Submit, Peter. Submit.**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Hold him down! Hold him down!"

"By the Lion, he's strong!"

"For Aslan's sake, clamp his mouth, he'll wake the entire camp!"

Silence.

"Thank Aslan, he's shut up."

"What's going on here?"

"Attention!"

"Captain Mesinthus, the High King awoke in a bout of screams. We tried to calm him down, but he struggled. He ceased his noise just before you entered."

"Hmm. This is the third time. Fetch some water, we need to cool him. I fear what is ailing our king is far more than a simple virus."

/_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_\

_Aslan…Oh, Aslan…why are you doing this to me?_

_**If you are referring to your feline divinity, I assure you, he is not here at the moment. I do not think he will be anytime soon. If you speak his name as a human plea of desperation directed towards my actions…then I do not want to waste valuable time saying what I have already said countless times. SUBMIT.**_

_NOOOO! I WILL NEVER SUBMIT TO YOU, YOU LYING BASTARD!_

_**Hm. Still quite vigorous I see. We'll have to fix that, my lord.**_

_AAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHH!_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"One…two…_three_!"

"His pulse is weakening, captain!"

"HARDER, THIS TIME! KEEP HIS PULSE ACTIVE!"

"One…two…_three_!"

"Captain, he's losing color. I fear he may be-"

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, PRIVATE! I SAID KEEP PUSHING!"

"One...two…_three_!"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

_Please…why? I want the pain to stop…I just…want it…to stop._

_**Hush, my dear friend. All will come to peace soon. What is your name, my king?**_

_My name…?_

_**Your name, your sovereign title.**_

_I…am High King Peter the Magnificent…Lord of…Cair Paravel…Emperor of the…urgh…Lone Islands._

_**Yes, yes. Mighty titles, indeed. Why are you in Arda?**_

_What…is…?_

_**Middle-Earth, friend.**_

_Middle-Earth…yes…Middle…SISTER! SUSAN! OH, ASLAN, WHERE IS MY-!_

_**The elf took her, my liege. Do you remember the elf?**_

_Elf…? Elf, yes. The prince! The wood elf! The bastard took my sister! He stole her from me!_

_**True, true, my king. True words. However, your sister was not an unwilling victim. She went with him, my lord. She ran away with him.**_

_What? Why? Has she spurned her siblings' love? Does she not know Narnia is dying without the presence of the Daughter of Eve? Why has she done this!_

_**It is because she…loves him, my liege.**_

…_she…loves…him? Yes...we…fought…in the throne room._

_**My king? You have lapsed into silence.**_

_SHE BETRAYS HER NATION FOR A WILY CHANCE OF LOVE! DOES SHE NOT LOVE HER BROTHERS AND SISTER, TOO!DOES SHE NOT love…us?_

_**It seems…the elf has…bewitched her.**_

…

_**They met during the peace banquet. The Firstborn seduced her into allying with him. He and King Aragorn Elessar II attempt to undermine your court from the inside. My king, I am sorry to say this, but they mean to annex Narnia to Gondor.**_

_..._

_**They would imprison you and your court after the invasion. They would execute you, my king, **_**you**_**, to send Narnia to its knees. It was all a farce, my lord. I am deeply sorry, but they were never your friends.**_

…_where is my brother?_

…_**ah, yes, Edmund. My king, I am also very sorry to say this, but during your battle with the king of Rohan, he sent one of the Dùnedain to assassinate your brother. Edmund lies on his deathbed. The outlook is…bleak.**_

_...I see._

_**King Peter, before you prolong this war, I am sure there is a diplomatic alternative to bloodshed. We can arrange-**_

_No._

_**My lord?**_

_No. Let them all burn._

_**My king, you would destroy them?**_

_With every inch of my being…until Minas Tirith is razed to the ground and Aragorn's head is displayed above my tent._

_**How grisly, my lord. Surely you will obtain your sister and end this war once and for all?**_

…

_**King Peter? Will you provide an answer?**_

…_the traitor…dies…too._

_**Hm. A clever move, your Excellency. This would stamp out any resistance to your just cause. A sad act, but necessary nonetheless. However, two nations still stand in your way to victory. Words are words, nothing more.**_

_I need your help…Annatar. I need to crush them…crush them for what they did to me._

_**Perfect. I knew you'd come through. Now, follow my lead…**_

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"Cap'n…"

"Yes, Decimus? What is it? Is he awake? Is he alive?"

"Er…it's…he's…"

"Spit it out, corporal!"

"He's…crying, cap'n. He's crying."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Mesinthus opened his bleary eyes.

He lay against the support post of the Royal Tent, the spot where he had fallen in weariness the other night. The image of the king's closed eyes welling with relentless tears was ingrained in his memory. He yawned, stretching as far as he could in his stiff dress uniform. He got to his feet, slowly rubbing his horns.

The sun barely peeked above the horizon, spreading a thin sheet of light over the quiet camp. A few soldiers milled about, checking equipment or chatting amongst themselves. The Royal Captain spied Oreius sleeping next to a copse of trees with his wife and remaining child, a month old female. The captain smiled sadly.

"Decimus…?" he asked, peeking into the tent. The faun corporal snored noisily on the ground, a thick puddle of drool already pooling beside his gaping mouth. Mesinthus kicked him in the hind legs, but he stayed still. The captain snorted and moved inside, ducking into the king's quarters.

And to his immense surprise, Peter's bed was empty.

"Decimus!" he hollered, shaking the faun awake. "Decimus, search the camp! The king is missing!"

"Y-Yes, sirree, I'll get right to it, cap'n!" he slurred, stumbling out of the tent with his sandals untied. He flopped to the ground with a yelp.

Mesinthus hurriedly rounded the tent, his eyes wide and breath frantic. _By the Lion, the king was missing. How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so _absent-minded?_ Oh, it's all my…_

Peter stood calmly at the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley, at the rear of the Royal Tent. One could see the whole southern portion of the camp from the half a mile tall cliff. The sun was nearly out of the horizon, the sunlight lending the king an imposing silhouette on the grass. His golden hair shifted slowly in the morning breeze, and he stared silently over the valley, his expression blank.

"My…my king?" Mesinthus stammered. He was still thoroughly shocked. "When did…when did you…?"

"Pre-dawn, captain," he answered, his voice strong and robust for a man nearly dead the night before. "I am fine, thank you. I was…not myself."

Mesinthus nodded dumbly. "Yes, my lord. You were not."

Peter nodded, his blue eyes lacking…something. "I have regained my senses, thanks to your actions. I thank you." He offered a stiff hand.

Mesinthus shook it, not knowing what else to do. "Of course, your Excellency. I am forever at your side."

Peter smiled. It was hard, joyless. "My thanks. Now, tell the men to prepare."

Mesinthus froze, shocked once more. "King Peter, prepare for what?"

The tall noble figure that Mesinthus had grown to admire and loved stared at him as if he had said the stupidest thing in the world. "For war, of course. What else? We are fighting one, do you not recall?"

"Y-Yes, my liege, b-but we have suffered a great defeat against Rohan. We need time to recover, map out locations, and formulate strategies. We need a plan!"

"Rohan is kingless, they are unsuspecting, and we are over three hundred thousand strong. Our plan: attack and slaughter anyone in our way. I shall see you at noon. I trust the men will be up and ready by then. Farewell."

Peter saluted and walked away.

The satyr could not even watch him as he walked past the tent and out of sight. He had trouble breathing, and the shock was almost too much to bear. He swallowed down nervously, finally gasping and stumbling back, as if stricken.

"Oh, Peter," he whispered. "What happened?"

Seeing no other alternative, he left to muster the troops.

Soon, bugles were sounded, followed by the sound of three hundred thousand Narnians readying weapons and equipment.

They were off to war once more.

**AN: Yay, woo-hoo, it's done! Yeah, it wasn't that great. Bit too cheesy in my opinion, but hey, all my chapters seem like trash to me unless you guys say otherwise . On that note, PLEASE R&R (no flames: don't like it, don't read it). I'll try my best to update on a faster pace, but nothing is for certain. Till then!**

**lord of owls: Lol, yeah, it is kind of rushed. I'm not much of a bridge chapter guy, but I'll heed your advice. I intend to make Rohan's struggle long and drawn out. Trust me, it'll be frightening. Peter's not holding **_**anything**_** back this time. **


	13. IMPORTANT NOTICE

**As you read on the chapter list, this is NOT a continuation of The Middle-Earth Campaign. This short notice is for the expense of the readers solely. This is not a very big deal, such as cancelling the story or revising it completely. Now, on to it, then!**

Hello, EtchedInDiamond here! First off, I'd like to thank all of the readers for giving the time to read this story. It was one of my first, and honestly, it isn't as great as I'd like it to be. On that note, I'm going to be rewriting a couple of chapters that I felt did not resonate well with the public, and my own personal tastes. For example, the whole Aslan/Eru get-together seemed cool when I wrote it, but it wasn't the _right_ way, if you get me. When you think of Eru, he isn't some corporeal being defined by a mundane shape. He is this omnipotent, omnipresent _force_ that doesn't have limits, much less inferiority to a "Supreme High" (corny, I know). I don't think I did Tolkien or Lewis justice, writing-wise and in the sense of their beliefs and the drive behind their magnificent stories. I am Christian myself, and placing Aslan and Eru Ilúvatar underneath someone else just doesn't feel…right. I apologize tremendously if this change upsets some people; it was never my intention. If it's any comfort, these adjustments won't detract from the main plot, although it might throw off some people's predictions and/or thoughts about the story. As the author of the story, I feel like some things should be changed to smooth the course of story, so Peter's rampage through Middle-Earth and the Free Peoples' resistance will have a less complicated storyline.

Again, I apologize. I hope you continue to read, however, regardless of sudden alterations. Thanks to all the people who pointed out flaws in my story! They are the medicine to my searing wound, and part of the reason for this change. As always, please R&R. It means a lot to me, it really does. Keep the flames extinguished, and I hope you respond meaningfully!

FOREVER REMAIN ETCHED IN DIAMOND


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